<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Latent Heat by for_autumn_i_am, ktula</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772878">Latent Heat</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am'>for_autumn_i_am</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/pseuds/ktula'>ktula</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(Very Explicit), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet Dancer Thomas Jopson, Beach Episode, Canadian Rink in the English Countryside, Edward Little's Nipple Piercings, Explicit Sexual Content, Hockey Hairpulling, Hockey Player Edward Little, M/M, Reunion Sex, Summer Romance, Trans Male Thomas Jopson, hockey hair</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:43:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>57,718</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772878</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/pseuds/ktula</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward Little is a hockey player. Thomas Jopson is a ballet dancer. Their worlds collide one summer.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>103</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>108</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please find <b>content warnings</b> for each chapter in the end notes!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Ice Hockey Summer Camp!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The Rec League is proud to offer skating &amp; skills hockey camp for various age groups this summer. Special guest instructors this year are Heather and Tozer, forwards from The Terror! Both on-ice and off-ice training is included, focused on skills development and power skating. Improve stickhandling, passing, shooting, and scoring!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For more details, or to register your child, visit the Rec Centre! Space is limited.</em>
</p><p>🏒</p><p>The filtered air in the rink is cool and crisp, Edward Little has the puck, and the net is open. He’s going down the ice as fast as he can, pushing through his thighs to force his body to move faster, faster, <em>faster</em>. He can hear people cheering—<em>Little! Little! Little!</em>—and he’s gonna make it worth their cheers. Once he’s a bit closer, once he knows he won’t miss, he’s going to take the shot. (He can hear the scrape of approaching skates behind him.) He glances up. The net is still open, no one anywhere near him, and just beyond the net, someone in the stands. Tall, dark hair combed neatly, jacket held over his arm, someone who looks a fuck of a lot like—</p><p>—<em>WHAM</em></p><p>Edward hits the boards, and then hits the ice. He rolls over onto his back, helmet scraping, and stares at the ceiling of the rink, at the team banners hanging from the rafters.</p><p>Should have checked his peripheral. Hadn’t.</p><p>He hears vague cheers. They’re definitely not for him.</p><p>After a moment, there’s a long scraping sound, and then the inevitable snow shower falling onto his face and hitting his visor. He grunts, doesn’t say anything.</p><p>Tozer leans over. He’s laughing, and not trying to hide it. “The, uh. Heck was that, Little?”</p><p>Edward scowls. Takes Tozer’s arm, gets back up.</p><p>The kids clustered at the other end of the rink cheer as Tozer skates towards them, bends low for the flurry of fist-bumps and high fives.</p><p>Edward glances back at the net. Tozer’s fluorescent puck is solidly in. Edward’s black one is somewhere near the faceoff circle.</p><p>The stands are empty.</p><p>🏒</p><p>“Seriously, though,” Tozer says.</p><p>Edward keeps his head down, focuses on loosening his skates.</p><p>“Like, I get that you usually just stand there and look scary, but…” Tozer whistles, long and low. The sound echoes through the concrete changeroom.</p><p>Edward grunts, tries to focus on his skates.</p><p>Can’t.</p><p>It’s stupid, though. There’s no goddamn reason that he should have thought he’d seen Tom Jopson, especially not <em>here</em>, in a tiny little seaside town that only has one <em>proper </em>pub and not much to do on the weekends when they’re not teaching. This is the second week of them being here, and they’re wrapping everything up this weekend. Maybe Edward’s just tired.</p><p>“Country life—”</p><p>“How’s Heather?” Edward interrupts. Winces as soon as he says it, because he’s never been great with hospitals or people who aren’t well, he never knows what to say or how to react, and it would have been better if he hadn’t said anything. Maybe if he just focuses on getting his skates off, the question will be forgotten entirely. He doesn’t mean to make it sound like he’s not happy to be here. It was no problem to step in as a replacement. He wasn’t doing anything anyway.</p><p>Tozer makes a disgruntled noise. “You should <em>see</em> the restrictions they’ve got him on. We’re fuckin’ hockey players in a professional league, mate, a hit to the head isn’t the end of the world.”</p><p>“Mmhmm.” Edward wiggles his toes in his skates, starts loosening the other one.</p><p>“I mean, you can’t have it both ways—it’s either a bloody risk, in which case, where’s the hazard pay, or it isn’t, in which case, he coulda just showed up here and gone easy at training—they’re wee still, it’s fine.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“But no, you take one hit to the head per season—and that’s not a terrible average—and they start tellin’ you all this shite—”</p><p>🏒</p><p>Edward is a man of many regrets. As he shoulders his hockey bag and heads out of the changeroom, he realizes that starting this conversation is yet another one.</p><p>“—and furthermore, if they think we won’t go to the NHL during a lockout, then they have another think coming, because at least over there—”</p><p>The foyer of the rec center is nearly empty except for a short girl with messy brown hair in even messier pigtails and an adult standing next to her, which jolts Edward’s memory enough to step forward.</p><p>“Hannah,” he asks, ignoring Tozer. “Are you still waiting on your ride? Your dad said his friend’s gonna—”</p><p>And then the man standing next to her looks up, and Edward stumbles to a stop.</p><p>🏒</p><p>When they were in school together, Tom Jopson had always been shorter than Edward Little, right up until he wasn’t. The first time Edward noticed, he felt it like a kick to the chest, like all the wind had been knocked out of him.</p><p>Watching Thomas Jopson—sideburns, five o’clock shadow, chest hair visible through his thin, v-neck tshirt—straighten, and push his sunglasses up onto his head fourteen years later?</p><p>It’s exactly the same.</p><p>🏒</p><p>“Hey,” Jopson says, slow and easy, and gives him a wink. Like he’s just casually running into Edward. Like this is normal, for them. “Edward Little. Long time no see.”</p><p>It doesn’t feel like a long time.</p><p>It feels like eternity.</p><p>Like yesterday.</p><p>Edward’s heart is thudding in his ears. “Uh.”</p><p>“Come on, Ms. Blanky,” Jopson says to Hannah, still in that same pleasant, casual tone. “Don’t want you to be late, huh?”</p><p>“Have a good afternoon, Hannah,” Tozer calls from behind Edward.</p><p>“See you, coach Sol!” she says, waving. Turns to Edward. “Bye, little coach.”</p><p>Jopson turns his head away, but Edward can see his mouth twitching up into a smile anyway. He still has dimples when he smiles.</p><p>He’s wearing tights. He has a spectacular ass.</p><p>And by the looks of it as he walks out of the rec center, he is completely, irrevocably, <em>absolutely</em> over Edward Little.</p><p>“You alright?” Tozer asks. “Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”</p><p>“Fuck,” Edward says.</p><p>Tozer laughs, slaps Edward on the back. “Come on, let’s go grab a pint. You know him from somewhere?”</p><p>Edward shifts the strap of his hockey bag on his shoulder.</p><p>Watches Jopson leave. Says something noncommittal to Tozer. Starts walking again.</p><p>It’s just.</p><p>There’s no way for him to answer the question.</p><p>The last time he’d seen Tom Jopson, Tom had broken his leg.</p><p>Immediately after that, Edward had broken Tom’s heart.</p><p>🏒🩰🏒</p><p>Tom’s heart is thudding in his chest. He tries to blame it on the workout: he did some yoga and technique practice while waiting for Hannah. He’s still in his ballet clothes; his head was too fuzzy, he felt like he had no time to shower, no time to change.</p><p>
  <em>Edward Little’s in town.</em>
</p><p>He’ll be damned.</p><p>“Wanna stop by the chippy?” he asks as they make their way down High Street, the gentle slope of it. The little boutiques, cafés, stores and homes line up like they always have, most of them untouched by time for over a century. Seagulls call in the distance, and Tom thinks he can hear the toss of waves. It’s a windy day, but the air is balmy, smells of salt, of seaweed. It’s his home, but everything seems changed, because Edward Little is here.</p><p>(<em>Stop it</em>.)</p><p>The street feels foreign because he’s wondering how Edward likes it. It’s probably a little bit too quaint for his taste. Idle. Serene.</p><p>“Nooo,” Hannah mumbles, holding onto his hand with little enthusiasm. “I said no.”</p><p>It gives Jopson pause. Did he ask already? He doesn’t remember asking.</p><p>“I thought you never say no to chips,” he grins. It’s fairly unconvincing.</p><p>Hannah looks deep in thought, then announces, “You were being cool.”</p><p>“Why, thank you.”</p><p>“I didn’t like it. You’re too old to be cool. It’s cringe.”</p><p>Tom smiles affectionately. Makes their joined hands swing; the gymbags slide down his shoulder. He lets them. “When was I being cool?”</p><p>“Talking to coach.”</p><p><em>Oh</em>.</p><p>“You need to practice winking.”</p><p>“Is Coach Little cool?” Tom asks to divert the conversation. He can feel his cheeks heating up. God; he can’t remember the last time he <em>blushed</em>.</p><p>“He’s okay.”</p><p>“Isn’t he too old to be okay?” Tom teases.</p><p>Hannah gives him a disapproving frown. “He’s a professional hockey player.”</p><p>“Will you be a professional hockey player?”</p><p>“‘Am trying,” she mutters. There’s a lull. Tom guides her across the street; a few more steps, a turn to the left, and there: the winding road opens up to the harbour. The masts of the yachts are like a forest swaying in the wind and creaking faintly. The sea crushes against the mossy cliffs, nearly engulfs the pier, blue and a stormy green.</p><p>“No kayaking today, huh?” Tom notes. Hannah doesn’t let herself be distracted.</p><p>“How do you know him?”</p><p>“Oh, ah.” He clears his throat. He shouldn’t feel cornered. It’s just a question. “We go way back,” he says.</p><p>Hannah makes a noncommittal sound. Waits for the rest.</p><p>Tom adjusts the gym bags. His own is much lighter. Hannah’s gear weighs a ton. She’s tiny.</p><p>(Edward Little is a professional hockey player.)</p><p>“If you <em>must </em>know,” he says, aloof, “we used to date in school.”</p><p>He wants to clarify; he should. He lost Hannah’s attention though: she’s watching a fisherman struggling with his net. Tom steps up to him to offer help. The topic is dropped.</p><p>🩰</p><p>Edward Little and him did not use to date in school.</p><p>Tom was awarded a sports scholarship when he was sixteen. Edward was already a student there in secondary school. They started sixth form together. It was a posh place, and Tom didn’t like it. He knew he would never fit in. The only friend he ever made there was Edward Little.</p><p>They were friends.</p><p>He used to hang out with Edward every day. Watch him practice. Help tie his skates. Walk him back to the boy’s quarters, where Tom wasn’t allowed to stay, not even after the official name change. At least he was never seriously bullied. Probably because he was friends with Edward Little, star junior hockey player, whom the casual observer could easily suspect of bodily violence.</p><p>Tom has no memories of Edward ever getting intense.</p><p>His memories are of Edward chewing his pencil over homework, his eyebrows knitted, then looking up at Tom for help. He was a bright student. He still looked at Tom for help.</p><p>They used to lie in bed and talk until their throats were sore.</p><p>They used to sit on the windowsill and study. Go to the library. Go for walks. Sneak out.</p><p>They were seventeen when Edward started looking at him differently.</p><p>Eighteen, when he leant in for a kiss but changed his mind at the last minute.</p><p>Eighteen still when he said they needed to talk, and they went down to the river, and Tom knew his life would be changed, because Edward kept staring at his lips and tried to be brave and looked ready to confess everything, say what Tom already knew, <em>I love you</em>.</p><p>He might have loved him.</p><p>Even after everything, Tom found it hard to believe that he didn’t.</p><p>It doesn’t matter.</p><p>They were eighteen.</p><p>Tom is thirty-two now. Edward was the first man he loved; he wasn’t the last. He’s been over him for a decade.</p><p>Except Edward Little looked at him today, and he looked <em>guilty</em>.</p><p>🩰</p><p>“Child delivery, at your service,” he announces as he steps into the blooming garden. Francis is by the vegetable patch in his battered straw hat, tugging at radishes.</p><p>“Ah, here you are,” he says. “Thank you for fetching Hannah.”</p><p>“Always a pleasure.” </p><p>“Is that dinner?” Hannah asks suspiciously. Francis shakes dirt off the radishes.</p><p>“James is making dinner. Beautiful weather for gardening,” he adds without a hint of irony. The wind carries petals from James’ peonies. “Blanky’s still swamped. I think the little miss will be stuck here a while.”</p><p>Hannah shrugs. “Neptune,” she calls. “Neptune!” </p><p>“Bloody tourists,” Francis goes on grumbling. “Swamping pubs and beaches.”</p><p>“Good for business,” Tom notes diplomatically. Francis grunts, gives a sharp glance towards the harbour. The beach is nearly empty. Not empty enough for Francis’ tastes. Tom bites down a smile as he enters the cottage, toes off his shoes. Finds James and Hannah in the living room with Neptune, photos scattered all around on the hardwood floor in a pattern that must make sense to James. He’s still in his pyjamas, but his hair is carefully curled, and he’s put on one of Francis’ cardigans.</p><p>“Need your eyes on this, son,” he says. Tom politely inches closer, surveys the pictures. They’re artsy as ever.</p><p>“Try organising by colour gradient?” he suggests.</p><p>“I tried; but the rain must follow the thunder.” James pokes at a photo with his big toe. It features a jungle in Maharashtra after a storm, a soaked tiger peering through the bushes.</p><p>“Heard it rumoured you’re making dinner,” Tom says, heading to the open kitchen.</p><p>“I’m making açorda de bacalhau,” James announces with an air of flair. “I cannot overstate how many eggs I’ll add.” Hannah jumps excitedly at the news; even Neptune raises his ears.</p><p>“Need anything?” Thomas asks as he puts Hannah’s jersey into the washing machine. “I’m grabbing some groceries.”</p><p>“I think we’re all set for dinner.”</p><p>“Orange juice,” Francis shouts from the garden. The window is open.</p><p>“We have plenty of orange juice left,” James yells back.</p><p>“You drank from the bottle,” Francis’ voice comes from the shrubbery. He repeats it in a mutter, “He drank from the bottle.” </p><p>James rolls his eyes fondly, arms crossed over his chest. “Francis,” he addresses the juniper. “We share, ah. Other forms of mouth-to-mouth contact.”</p><p>“I know that you do kissing,” Hannah says from the floor. “I’m ten.”</p><p>“I’ll grab some orange juice,” Tom says. It does not stop the argument. He strips off his sweaty clothes, starts the program, goes upstairs in his underwear to shower. He feels perfectly content. He goes through his shopping list in his head joyfully, the chores of tomorrow, his training plan. Then a stray thought makes its way into his head while he’s washing his hair: <em>Edward doesn’t even know about Francis and James</em>.</p><p>But why would he? Tom met Francis shortly after school, when he had to do odd jobs to keep on dancing, and Francis’ ad promised travel opportunities, and assisting a nature photographer sounded terribly exciting anyway. He’d been his assistant for a good while when they met James in Kitikmeot, Nunavut. James nearly froze to death trying to take pictures for his aurora series. He was awfully chipper about hypothermia. Francis yelled his head off, and saved his life by aggressively cuddling him.</p><p>They’ve been married for seven years now.</p><p>Tom has been living with them for the last three, when they got Sea Esta Cottage. He has his own living space upstairs. He doesn’t pay rent. He pays his <em>mother’s </em>rent and his brother’s university fees, and he may be a principal dancer at the Royal Ballet, but it’s the <em>arts</em>, not hockey, he will never have the Edward Little kind of money, and he wants to resent him for it, but can’t.</p><p>He’s quite happy that Edward made it.</p><p>He worked hard for success.</p><p>At moments of self pity, Tom would stalk him a bit. Edward didn’t use socials Tom could find, but there were articles about him. Scores. Photos. They were taken before the muttonchops. It’s been a while since he felt low enough to look him up, so the muttonchops are a surprise. Also, he could swear Edward is twice as wide now as he’s ever been. Gear notwithstanding. He used to have the kind of twigarms one could snap in half; now they’re more like trunks. Sexy, sexy trunks.</p><p>That’s not a thought he should entertain. Possibly.</p><p>He rinses his hair, closes the faucet. Stays in the shower. Water drips from his skin.</p><p>He’s fine. He’s been doing just fine, doing very well, in fact, until Edward showed up again, with his puppy eyes and shaggy helmet hair.</p><p>🩰🏒🩰</p><p>Edward swipes his hair from his forehead as he steps out onto the street. Squints into the sun.</p><p>“You sure you’re not heading back?” Tozer says.</p><p>“Nah,” Edward says. Sticks his hands in his pockets. “Gonna go for a walk or something.” He stares down the street toward the harbour. “Tell Heather I say hi.”</p><p>“Sure,” Tozer says. “Uh, so. Whenabouts are you thinking you’ll be back? Heather and I…”</p><p>Edward glances at him, and then immediately feels like he’s intruding and looks away. “Hours,” he says. “Like—definitely not before dark. And I’ll just go straight to bed, don’t wait up.”</p><p>“Right,” Tozer says, sounding relieved that his Skype call won't be interrupted. “Ta. See you tomorrow morning.”</p><p>Edward nods. Sets off down the street, not paying any particular attention to where he’s going. The street is quiet, and he has half an idea that maybe he’ll just, like. Go look at the boats or something, clear his head a bit. It’s just—it’s been fourteen years, and he’d spent the first handful of those years swearing that he could see Jopson around every corner, and the second handful of years telling himself that it wasn’t the case, and the last couple of years just...doing his best not to think about it very much anymore at all, and it wasn’t that he’d gotten over Jopson, because he sure as fuck had not, it’s just that the one time he didn’t expect it, the person glancing up at him was definitely—</p><p>“Hello, Edward.”</p><p>Edward looks over.</p><p>Stops.</p><p>“I thought that was you,” Jopson says calmly. He smiles, shifts his wicker basket from one arm to the other. “Small town. What brings you down here?”</p><p>Edward gestures behind him, in the direction of the pub they’d been at, eyes still fixed on Jopson. He’s changed outfits since Edward saw him last—he’s wearing white chinos that show off his thighs, a striped shirt and a little neckerchief-thing. He looks like a sailor. He looks like he belongs here. He’s looking expectantly at Edward, and Edward just—is absolutely out of place. Out of his element. Off the ice.</p><p>(He’s self-conscious, suddenly, of the fact that he’s wearing a Terror shirt with his name and number on it, that he’s wearing trainers and sweatpants—for fuck’s sake, he didn’t even remember to take the tape off his nipple rings after practice, and his hair is probably a disaster.)</p><p>“And where are you off to?” Jopson is still smiling at him, for some reason. His little wicker basket is full of groceries—orange juice, lemons, tinned tomato, a small little potted basil plant.</p><p>(God, what were the chances that Thomas Jopson would <em>live</em> here?)</p><p>“Harbour, maybe,” Edward says. “Just, uh. Going for a walk.”</p><p>“No Coach Sol?” Jopson asks, gesturing that Edward should keep walking, and smoothly falling into step beside him. The street didn’t feel narrow before Jopson started walking beside him, but oh, Jopson is so, so close now, and Edward is overly conscious of the position of his own hand in relation to Jopson’s.</p><p>It’s just like old times—except for the part where it’s really, really not. “No,” Edward says. “He’s Skyping his, er, Heather.”</p><p>“Ah, yes,” Jopson says. “Hannah mentioned.”</p><p>There. A conversation they can actually have. “I didn’t know that you knew Hannah Blanky.”</p><p>“I know her parents,” Jopson chats cheerfully, keeping up with Edward easily. “Through Francis and James, actually.”</p><p>Edward nods, files that information away. God, he remembers when Jopson hadn’t grown yet, used to have to take two steps to Edward’s one. “Hannah is skating way above her age group,” he offers. “Wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep up, she’s nearly a foot shorter than some of the other kids, but she goes fast, turns sharp.” Hesitates. “I like her,” he says, finally, only realizing how awkward it sounds after the words are out. Once he realizes how many words he’s spoken, and all at once, a veritable tidal wave of words when he should have just been listening.</p><p>He glances to the side without moving his head. Watches Jopson carefully the way he usually watches other players. Prays that he hasn’t stilled the conversation, bored Jopson to pieces, said too much, said the wrong thing.</p><p>“She’s a good kid,” Jopson says decisively.</p><p>Oh, thank god. Edward exhales in relief. Puts his eyes back front where they belong. Carefully sorts through the tail end of their conversation, looking for something else to speak to Jopson about. “...Francis and James?”</p><p>(He can’t help but glance back at Jopson. He needs to know Jopson is keeping pace with him. Needs to know whether they’re still moving at the same speed.)</p><p>“Yes,” Jopson says, looking absolutely delighted to be asked anything, no matter how stupid Edward’s question. “After school, those couple of years I was in physio?”</p><p>Edward doesn’t know. (He doesn’t know because he wasn’t <em>there</em>.)</p><p>“—met James up north a few years in. They claim the house is too large for the both of them, which between the two of us, I don’t think is entirely true—but it’s a lovely place to live off-season, I’ve got my own space, it’s close to the harbour and my favourite tea shop—do you have a favourite tea shop, Edward?”</p><p>Edward blinks. Swallows. “Er, not really.”</p><p>Jopson hardly hesitates. “Well, that’s no matter, I—”</p><p>“Actually,” Edward says. He’s stopped walking without necessarily meaning to. He’s also got his hand on Jopson’s elbow, whose bare skin is warmed from the sun. He’s got more lean muscle in his arms than what Edward remembers. God, how long has it been since he <em>touched</em> Jopson?</p><p>(<em>You held his head in your lap when his leg was broken, you arse. And then you never contacted him again, not once.</em>)</p><p>“Do you want to show me yours?” Edward asks.</p><p>Jopson raises one eyebrow slightly. “My tea shop, Edward?” The look on his face is absolutely wicked.</p><p>Edward feels like he’s been knocked flat on his back all over again. Is Jopson—is Tom <em>flirting</em> with him? “...you’re the expert,” he says, trying to inject just enough levity in his voice that it could be interpreted as flirting back, if that’s what Tom meant by it. Please, let that have been what Tom meant. “I’m, um. Out of my league. Here.”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know,” Tom says. “I think you’re precisely where you need to be, don’t you?”</p><p>He’s flirting.</p><p>He’s definitely flirting.</p><p>(Please let him be flirting.)</p><p>“Yes,” Edward says, heart pounding as he carefully slides his hand down Jopson’s forearm, notices how Jopson doesn’t move away. “Let me take your basket? And you can show me where the tea shop is?”</p><p>Tom’s eyes are sparkling now. “Edward Little, are you trying to get me to take you for tea?”</p><p>Edward’s hand is on the handle of Jopson’s basket. His heart is in his throat.</p><p>“Because of course I will,” Tom says, sliding his arm out of the basket and letting Edward take it. “Here,” he says, touching his hand briefly to the small of Edward’s back. “The shop is over this way.”</p><p>🩰🏒🩰</p><p>Edward does not know shit about tea, and he feels entirely too large for this space. There are little tables crammed in everywhere, a low hum of conversation, rows and rows of different tea leaves in large tins on the walls, the labels done by hand. If he were on his skates, it wouldn’t be an issue—he could navigate deftly between the tables and mismatched chairs, dodge around the customers, skate backwards between the servers without upsetting their trays, come to a clean stop right in front of Jopson—but there’s no skates and no ice here. There’s just Edward, far too casually dressed, and in the company of the most beautiful man in the shop. He’s got Jopson’s little wicker grocery basket tucked under his feet, and his right knee keeps sticking out into the aisle. Tom is up at the counter ordering something for them to drink. Edward can’t take his eyes off him.</p><p>The chinos Jopson is wearing now are looser than the tights he’d been wearing back at the rink, but it doesn’t much matter. His arse is a thing of beauty that cannot possibly be masked by something as pedestrian as a pair of trousers. Edward’s trying not to stare, but he’s not entirely certain that he’s successful.</p><p>God, <em>Thomas Jopson</em>, out here, in the middle of nowhere. Thomas Jopson, ordering him tea. Walking through the crowded room carrying two cups, just as graceful as anything, moving so smoothly it’s like he’s gliding on the floor.</p><p>“Here,” Tom says. “Lavender lemon for you, sencha for me.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Edward says. The tea is in a cup that’s too small, with a handle so thin he’s afraid he’ll break it, and a little metal egg-thing that he plunks into the cup after watching Jopson do the same. He’s not used to this, to picking something up gently and inhaling it slow. He’s used to squirting Gatorade in his mouth, and tossing back shots between his pints. Protein shakes, blended out of a package and gulped back as efficiently as possible. He picks up his tea, brings it to his mouth. Sniffs it, like he’s watching Jopson do—but it smells like grass and flowers to him. He takes a sip, grimaces as it burns his tongue. Carefully sets it back down to let it cool.</p><p>Jopson is watching him.</p><p>Edward’s face goes hot. “You should, uh,” he says. Desperately wants Tom to walk away from him for a moment, just so he can—no. He reaches under the table, adjusts his cock in his sweats. “Do you work here?” he asks.</p><p>Jopson’s eyebrows go up again. “In this particular tea shop?”</p><p>“No,” Edward says quickly. “No, no. In town, do you work in town?”</p><p>“Edward,” Tom says gently. “I’m a ballet dancer.”</p><p>“You’re a—oh.” Edward laughs, awkwardly and self-consciously. “Oh, god. I, um.” Of course he’s a ballet dancer, he’d always wanted to be a ballet dancer, just like Edward had always wanted to be a hockey player, and of course he’d achieved it, just look at him—at his arms, at his legs, at his arse, he’s got the kind of body that ballet explains perfectly, long and powerful and lithe, and this is <em>not</em> helping Edward’s concentration any, because now he’s back to thinking about Jopson’s legs wrapped around his waist and his cock buried deep in Jopson’s arse, which is entirely inappropriate when they’re sitting in a tea shop, of all the bloody things—</p><p>“—The Royal Ballet,” Jopson is saying casually. “I’m off on break for the summer—still training daily, of course, but I always come home when I’m not needed in London, much easier this way. We’re rumoured to be doing Onegin next season, so I need to make sure I’m in top shape for that.”</p><p>“Right,” Edward says. “Yeah.” He didn’t know Onegin had a dance adaptation. He’s vaguely aware of the Royal Ballet. <em>He had no fucking idea Jopson was a ballet dancer</em>. He takes another sip of his tea, doesn’t remember he’d burnt his tongue already until the tea touches it, and then he’s reminded all over again. “You look like you’re in top shape,” he blurts, and then immediately wishes that he hadn’t.</p><p>Tom looks at him, eyes sparkling. “Do I really, Edward?”</p><p>Okay, never mind. Tom is <em>definitely </em>flirting.</p><p>“Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?” Edward asks.</p><p>“Every day,” Tom deadpans—and then, thankfully, takes pity on him. “There’s a multipurpose room in the rec center with mirrors all along the length of the wall. They’ve let me keep my barre in there.”</p><p>“Oh, god,” Edward says. “I’m at the rec center every day.”</p><p>“Maybe you could walk me home sometime, while you're still in town,” Tom says.</p><p>“Just like old times,” Edward replies immediately—and then he remembers that last walk, by the river, and immediately looks down at his hands, at his saucer, at the little metal egg in his cup of hot leaf water.</p><p>
  <em>You’re being so brave, Tom, the ambulance is on the way, just hang in there—no, don’t look at your leg, look into my eyes, I’ve got you, squeeze my hands as tight as you want, it’s okay—</em>
</p><p>Under the table, something nudges at Edward’s trainer.</p><p>He leans back, glances down, trying to figure what he’s accidentally kicked—</p><p>—oh.</p><p>It’s Tom’s foot, stretched out under the table, the toe of his loafer resting, ever so gently, against Edward’s instep.</p><p>Edward looks across the table at Tom. Tom looks back at him, smiles enigmatically.</p><p>Doesn’t move his foot.</p><p>🏒</p><p>(Knowing something about who Tom Jopson is now should have made it easier, but every piece of information Tom Jopson divulges opens up a new cavern in Edward’s body that needs more information about Tom Jopson in it. They chat about the town. The harbour. The weather. Every new fact is like water across the scarred-up ice of their used-to-be-a-friendship, but it’s a big rink. It’s going to take time to flood it.)</p><p>(Oh, god, Edward wants to take the time.)</p><p>🏒</p><p>Edward is cataloguing Tom’s face, the way he moves, the way he gestures gracefully with his hands. He’s watching the variety in Tom’s facial expressions through the first cup of tea, carefully memorizing the shape of his arms during the second. In no time at all, they’re the last ones in the shop, and Edward isn’t ready to go. The server is sweeping the floor, and had been glaring at them earlier—but Edward had signed an autograph, taken a selfie with her while Tom was in the washroom, and otherwise smoothed it over. He knows they have to leave soon, and they will, he just—wants this to go on for longer. Doesn’t want to admit that they’ll go their own separate ways after this is done.</p><p>“—and you should have <em>seen</em> the bruise on my calf,” Tom reminisces fondly. “It was nearly black, I had to wear two sets of tights so it wouldn’t show through on stage.”</p><p>Edward pictures his hand, spanning a lurid bruise on Tom’s bare leg.</p><p>Pictures Tom’s bare leg.</p><p>Gently nudges his empty teacup a fraction to the right. He’s rather good at post-game interviews, why the fuck is talking with Tom so <em>difficult</em>?</p><p>(Okay, fine, he does a tolerable post-game interview. Tozer’s the preferred pick for most of the reporters, and that’s just fine by Edward.)</p><p>He clears his throat. Pretends he’s banishing the thoughts of Tom’s bare leg for good, and knows damn well he’ll manage it for an hour, if that. “Does that, uh, happen often? The bruising?”</p><p>“All the time,” Tom says lightly. He crosses one leg over the other, points and flexes his foot. Does circles with his ankle, the movements rote and smooth, delicate and precise. “Hazard of the job.” He glances up at the front counter. “Oh, gosh, it got late.”</p><p>Edward sighs. “Right,  yes.” Tom will have things to do, people to see. His flatmates are probably expecting him at home. He’ll hand over Tom’s grocery basket, they’ll go their separate ways, and they won't run into each other again, it's not bloody likely, Edward is leaving on Sunday, which leaves them fifty odd hours of missed chances—</p><p>Tom stands, turns slightly to the side as he gracefully pushes his chair in. The dim lights catch on his hair, which glints silver here and there, and it looks like it would be soft to the touch. Edward wants to press his lips to—</p><p>Fine. Edward will hold his basket for a moment. Just until he can be sure that he’s not disgracing himself. (Wearing sweats was a bad idea, but how the hell was he to know he was going to run into Tom Jopson <em>again</em>?)</p><p>“After you,” Edward says, like he’s doing Tom a favour, and Tom gives him one of those wicked little smiles and walks out of the teashop.</p><p>His arse is still incredible.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>🏒</p><p>Tom doesn’t ask for his groceries back immediately. Edward is fully prepared to hand them over as he steps out of the teashop onto the narrow street, but Tom just tilts his head in the dusk light and says, “Do you want to take this elsewhere?” and Edward, of course, nods wordlessly, and falls into step beside him.</p><p>The air is cooling off a bit, and Edward can smell the harbour, now, the salt-scent of the water. Tom isn’t in any particular hurry, and Edward matches pace with him exactly, marvels that he’s doing this, here, now, fourteen years later—he’s going for a walk with Tom Jopson, and Tom’s hand is right next to his, just like it used to be.</p><p>(Not touching, but so close that it would hardly take anything.)</p><p>The town is pretty in the evening. Edward hasn’t had much opportunity to admire it in the two weeks they’ve spent here—they tend to pack it in early after training so Tozer can get on Skype, and Edward doesn’t have much motivation to do anything. He typically just  sleeps, or plays games on his phone. Avoids his emails. He’s been missing out, though—tonight, it’s like something out of one of the fairytale books he used to flip through when he was a kid, all soft yellow-glow lights, flickering into existence as they enter into dusk. There’s no traffic noises, nothing but the occasional call of seagulls. In the distance by the harbour, there are dark clouds, but they’re at bay for now.</p><p>“Pub’s just up this way,” Tom says.</p><p>“Oh?” Edward asks. “I thought the pub was back…” He gestures vaguely in the direction they’d come from.</p><p>“Nah, anything back there’s a tourist trap,” Tom says. “This one’s tucked in by the harbour.” He leans in close to Edward, almost enough that their shoulders touch. “If you look right between the buildings there—yeah, just there. That’s the brewery, and the pub is just a door or two down. Give ‘em a couple years, I think, and they’ll own the entire stretch of it.”</p><p>“Right,” Edward says. God, it’s hard to think when Tom is this close to him. He’s thirty-two and eighteen all at once, and he still doesn’t know if or when he’s doing the right thing. Feels like he’s playing catch-up—because he is, because he deserves to be, because he’d never actually apologised for any of it, not in any way that mattered. “Good beer?”</p><p>(Not in any way at all.)</p><p>“The best,” Tom says seriously. “Guarantee they’re not charging you half what they charge you up the street either.”</p><p>And it’s the perfect opportunity for Tom to say something snarky about the amount of money Edward makes now—he must know, the last contract negotiations were all over the news—and Edward would deserve it, he would, he remembers how careful Tom had always been with his money back in school—but Tom doesn’t say anything at all, just glances forward again, laughs.</p><p>“Look,” he says. “The swan’s wandered into town again.”</p><p>“The what?” Edward says, peering ahead.</p><p>“No, this way,” Tom says, and he leans in again, points off to Edward’s left. “Do you see him, right between the Waitrose and Ann’s Bakery?”</p><p>It’s too much. It’s not enough. Edward can smell Tom’s cologne, he can feel Tom’s shoulder pressed up against his, the way the lean muscles in his arm flex as he points, and Edward turns to Tom. Opens his mouth. “I…”</p><p>Tom looks at him, and his eyes are the same colour as the gradually darkening sky, the same colour as the sea, the same impossible-to-describe colour that they’ve always been, the one that Edward would recognize anywhere. Edward wouldn’t even need the context of the rest of his face, it would be enough just to be able to see his eyes, and he would know—that’s Tom.</p><p>That’s Tom Jopson.</p><p>Tom inhales, and his eyes glint, and Edward leans in and kisses him.</p><p>It’s soft. Tentative. Their lips just barely touch, and Edward can’t remember whether he was breathing in or out, but it doesn’t matter because Tom isn’t pulling away, and when Edward leans into it, just a little deeper, Tom makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat and his lips soften under Edward’s as he kisses back.</p><p>(Oh, thank fuck, Tom is kissing him back.)</p><p>Edward brings his hand up, touches the side of Tom’s face, his fingers cautiously pushing into Tom’s hair. He’s still holding the wicker basket with his other hand, but he’s so close to Tom that Edward can feel the heat of Tom’s fingers in the scant bit of space that separates them.</p><p>Edward pulls back. Breathes. He feels half-crumbled apart already, every synapse in his brain firing in a firework racket of endorphins. It’s better than a good interception. Hell, it’s better than <em>scoring</em>.</p><p>“Well,” Tom says.</p><p>There’s an apology lurking in the back of Edward’s brain, but he’s too tongue-tied to get it out—and, anyway, it doesn’t look like it’s warranted, not with the dimples Tom’s showing when he smiles.</p><p>“It took you long enough,” Tom says warmly.</p><p>Edward exhales all the tension out of his body. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it really did.” Glances down the street, and then squints at the white flash of feathers in between two of the buildings. “Wait, there was actually a swan?”</p><p>Tom laughs. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “There was actually a swan.”</p><p>🏒🩰🏒</p><p>Blanky &amp; Daughters is packed. Tom takes Edward’s hand to navigate him through the crowd. The air is hot, and there’s a buzz to it. Tom keeps chanting <em>blimey, blimey, blimey </em>in his head<em>, </em>and maybe he allows himself a fleeting <em>crap </em>too, because Edward’s hand fits into his own perfectly. He guides him to the counter. He needs a seat. He needs—he’s dizzy; he needs to think. It’s proving to be difficult. The chatter of the tourists nearly drowns out the folky tunes, there’s just such a lively <em>noise</em>, and Edward sits sprawled on the stool, turning to Tom with his whole body, staring with a singular intensity. His eyes are almost black in this light, but they are bright.</p><p>
  <em>Oh my.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Well, I never.</em>
</p><p>“Drink?” Tom asks. Edward scowls, looks at the counter in search of a menu, then up at the blackboard with Mr. Blanky’s best attempt at legible handwriting. (He uses way too many exclamation points. The number of exclamation points that should be used in a menu is null, in Tom’s humble opinion.)</p><p>“You hungry?” Edward grumbles. That <em>voice </em>of his. It was his voice, wasn’t it, that Tom noticed first? A rarity to hear; it’s like when the brass players join the rest of the orchestra, that cerebral shock that guides him to a sauté, higher and higher.</p><p>He should order something. Edward is offering to pay, by the look of it. It would only be polite not to decline. But he has plans; he has plans involving Edward that cannot be comfortably done on a full belly, and he can skip a meal, absolutely, to get to—</p><p>“I’ll have an orange,” he decides, reaching for his wicker basket. Edward nudges it towards him. Tom scavenges a muesli bar too, and squints at the menu while he unwraps it, as if he didn’t know it by heart. “Maybe a cider?”</p><p>“Elderberry?” Edward asks. Tom bites into the muesli bar to hide his smile, nods vaguely. Edward remembers his usual order. Edward remembers him well.</p><p>“Grab some crisps,” Tom says, slides the basket towards him. It feels like a peace offering. Edward always loved salty snacks. Tyrrell’s, salt and vinegar. The wavy ones.</p><p>“Can we—?” Edward asks, timid, peering at Mr. Blanky who’s engaged by a group of Russians.</p><p>“Mr. Diggle will thank you for not having to prepare anything at rush hour,” Tom chats. “It’s alright to bring your own snacks.”</p><p>Edward takes a bag of Walker’s with reverence. Opens it as if it was a Christmas gift, and smiles at Tom shyly.</p><p>(He kissed him.)</p><p>Tom can feel warmth spread in his belly. Moves closer. He wanted to be subtle, but the treacherous stool creaks. “What are you having?” he asks, a bit too loud.</p><p>“Rootbeer,” Edward says.</p><p>That’s strange. There’s imperial stout on the menu. IPA. Ale. Edward’s favourites. He plans to keep a clear head, then. Not because of work: Tom did run into him just leaving a pub. Tom takes another bite from the muesli bar, meets Edward’s eyes.</p><p>So.</p><p>They share the same plans for tonight.</p><p>“What can I get for you, gents?” Mr. Blanky steps closer, a tea towel thrown over his shoulder. Gives a look to Tom; just a quick glance, wide-eyed. <em>Him!? </em></p><p>Edward mumbles their order, gets his wallet.</p><p>Well.</p><p>Yes.</p><p>This is not Tom’s usual seat.</p><p>He takes his Tinder and Grindr dates to the back, to spare Mr. Blanky the conversation, which is either miserably dull or not safe for work at all. Not many of them are invited to sit at the counter. That’s for long-term partners—anything where they’ve been in touch for longer than a week. Tom is busy. There hasn’t been a by-the-counter man in his life for over eight months now. He prefers hookups. Quick, fast, to the point. A drink at Blanky &amp; Daughters, then straight to the B&amp;B or Airbnb where his date is staying.</p><p>He plans to bring Edward home.</p><p>He’s safe with him, for one thing. But he won’t fool anybody. It’s not about safety. He wants Edward Little in his own bed. Wants to breathe in the familiar scent of his own laundry detergent as his face is pressed into the pillow and Edward fucks him raw. A small comfort, a luxury, to share his own bedroom. Let Edward fill it with his presence for a night. Let Tom have this experience, bring Edward to all his cherished places, pretend he belongs there before he lets him go again.</p><p>Their knees brush together. Tom wants to giggle.</p><p>Edward Little is a good kisser.</p><p>Tom <em>knew </em>he would be.</p><p>“Here you go.” Mr. Blanky presents their drinks, and adds two bottles of non-alcoholic beer to the wicker basket. “Give my love to Francis and James.”</p><p>“Definitely.”</p><p>“James okay?”</p><p>“It’s passing.”</p><p>“Thank fuck. Unkillable bastard.” Mr. Blanky shakes his head ruefully, clasps Tom on the shoulder, then he’s off to serve a group of Canadians.</p><p>Edward is tactfully sipping on his rootbeer. Tom looks him over. Lets his gaze linger as he takes a swig from his cider. Edward eyes his throat working. Tom takes care to lick his lips and sigh contently.</p><p>He should be more careful. He’s been like this before. A silly schoolboy getting woozy just because his crush was near. How he used to squirm for Edward’s attention; he tried to be so good, deserving of his regard. He bent over himself to catch his eye, and he’s doing it again, isn’t he, dragging him to his favourite places, <em>look, look here, this is how I live, am I not doing great, are you not proud of me, tell me—</em></p><p>“Remember when we first met?” he asks. It comes out sharper than intended. It’s a test; a reminder.</p><p>“When we first met or when we first talked?” Edward says.</p><p>Tom makes a face. “I’d rather forget assembly. When we first talked.”</p><p>“You said you liked my voice,” Edward beams into his rootbeer. Tom watches how his locks fall forward, the dusting of freckles, his incredible eyelashes. He wants to kiss him again. This is about why he shouldn’t. A shag can’t hurt. Falling in love again, however.</p><p>“I did like your voice.”</p><p>“You said I sounded like a man,” Edward snickers. Tom shouldn’t take credit for making him smile so often. “I sounded like a—trumpet. In need of tuning. I wonder how I ever dared open my mouth, God.”</p><p>“You had the deepest voice in class,” Tom says, gentle. “I asked you to teach me. You thought I meant the accent.”</p><p>“I was an idiot.”</p><p>“You were kind. I said, ‘no, I want to know how to make my voice go deep without sounding fake,’ and I said it with all the confidence of a chipmunk.”</p><p>Edward snorts. “You did not sound like a chipmunk.” There’s a beat. “Kinda looked like one. With your big eyes and lack of hair straightener.”</p><p>Tom adjusts his forelock proudly. “Never thanked you enough for introducing me to one.”</p><p>“Never thanked you for stealing it. Effectively ended my emo phase.”</p><p>There’s a moment of silence for Edward’s fleeting emo phase. </p><p>“Did you hear,” Edward says, haunted, “that MCR is back together?”</p><p>Tom won’t let the conversation derail. He has an agenda here. He takes another gulp of his cider, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.</p><p>“When I asked you,” he says, “about the speech lessons, and you asked me why I wanted to sound different—”</p><p>“You said you didn’t sound like yourself,” Edward says gently.</p><p>“You looked me over,” Tom says, “and all I could think was how <em>wrong </em>I looked. They let me wear trousers but they looked terrible on my thighs, and I used gauze and safety pins to bind, a bloody sports bra, and I remember thinking the strap was showing, those shirts were so awfully thin and flimsy—”</p><p>“I’m sorry I made you feel like that,” Edward says, earnest. Tom needs to stop for a moment, collect himself.</p><p>This is not the apology he needs.</p><p>He could laugh, that Edward gives them so easily now.</p><p>“You said ‘you’re a bit of a tomboy,’ and—”</p><p>“Shit, I’m sorry—”</p><p>“Hush, I liked that you said that, because remember, I replied—”</p><p>“Not a tomboy, just a boy.”</p><p>“Yes, and—”</p><p>“I asked your name and I felt terrible for ever calling you anything else.”</p><p>“It was an objectively dreadful name. No disrespect to Ma, but God.” He takes a chug. He can feel Edward’s eyes on him. So gentle; understanding; he’s always been like that, Tom knew, instinctively, that he could trust him, so why is it—</p><p>He just needs to know—</p><p>“I never told you,” he says, “why I said Tom.”</p><p>Edward’s eyebrows furrow.</p><p>“You see,” Tom goes on, “You didn’t even notice that I was pulling your leg. You just said Tom back, and I loved how it sounded when you said it. I didn’t have a name. I was just—me. I clearly wasn’t █████, but I never thought to change it until you asked me, and I said Tom to poke at you for calling me a tomboy.”</p><p>Edward opens his mouth, but only a strangled sound comes out. Tom puts a finger under Edward's chin, stopping him from looking away.</p><p>“You didn’t <em>name </em>me,” he clarifies. “I chose this name. You gave me the encouragement to stick with it. But I won’t deny that you were rather fundamental since day one.” He caresses his face, then drops his hand. “Which is why,” he goes on, “when you buggered off, it felt like losing all of my limbs, not just the bloody leg for the summer.”</p><p>“I shouldn’t have disappeared like that,” Edward says, voice broken.</p><p>Tom shakes his head. “You didn’t disappear,” he says softly. “You buggered off.”</p><p>Edward is silent. Hangs his head.</p><p>Tom finishes his cider with dark relief. He just needed to say this. <em>You were the most important person in my life, and you really, really hurt me</em>. In the past, it would’ve taken longer to say it, and there would’ve been tears. He sets the bottle aside, reaches for an orange. Tosses it up in the air, and looks at Edward with a playful smile. He’s about to say,<em> ready to shag out our regrets? </em></p><p>Edward glances up. His eyes are wet.</p><p>🩰</p><p>It was the day that Edward was going to confess his love. Tom was sure of it. There’d been signs. Plenty. The school year was ending. They’d move back to London; move apart. Tom would’ve taken the initiative if it wasn’t so bloody obvious what Edward was planning. (He would’ve broken his vow to never ever tell him, not risk their friendship, on the off-chance Edward Littlespoon didn’t like him back, if he’d read all his signals wrong, if Edward was just in the habit of cuddling with a hard-on and staring at his friends’ lips.)</p><p>The ball hit his window with a familiar thud. He looked outside. Edward was at his usual place, by the bike racks, too-long hair wet, still in his uniform. Tom hadn’t changed either. He had trouble with the buttons; his hands were trembling after the note Edward passed him during biology.</p><p><em>I’ve got something to tell you. Will come pick you up.</em> Then a crossed out line.</p><p>Tom climbed out the window. The tiles were slippery with summer rain. <em>Careful</em>, Edward said. Tom remembers he said that.</p><p>The walk was silent. It couldn’t be mistaken for their usual companionable pauses. Edward was chewing at his lower lip, kept glancing at him, walked too close then picked up the pace. He was psyching himself up the same way he’d do before a game, pacing and hanging his head, hands in his back pockets. (That habit has always been distracting.) Tom was staring at the leather bracelets on Edward’s wrists, noticing that his forearms had gotten rather hairy; the spike of arousal was sharp. He worked to suppress it, habitually, tore his gaze away from Edward’s hands and arse, when it dawned on him, <em>if Edward wants me I won’t have to look away</em>.</p><p>They walked through the afternoon haze to the river, because of course the posh school had a river, but Tom wasn’t mad about it that day, because Edward stopped halfway, and turned to look at him, and Tom was thinking that this was perfect, that they were just like Aragorn and a male Arwen and Edward was going to give him the Evenstar, wish his wanderer a safe journey and kiss him.</p><p>Edward reached to adjust Tom’s carefully straightened fringe. Cupped his face.</p><p>Lost his nerve <em>visibly</em>.</p><p>Tom took pity on him and pointed out that it was going to rain again.</p><p>Edward agreed.</p><p>“You were going to tell me something,” he said, leaning into Edward’s palm. (His palms were sweating.)</p><p>“Yes,” Edward said. Dropped his hand. Nearly left it at that: started walking again. Tom grinned and followed him, his knock-off Converse with the drawn-on stars squeaking on the wet stone.</p><p>“Is it a secret?” he teased. Edward squeezed his eyes shut, hurried up.</p><p>“It is,” he confessed, pained, “but I think you know what it is, I think you—feel—”</p><p>
  <em>The same way. </em>
</p><p>(Say it, say it, say it.)</p><p>God, how Tom loved him. Edward was the most amazing person he ever met or could fathom meeting. He was kind and shy and intense, serious, reliable, his best friend (his only friend) ever. He was playing in a junior league sponsored by Terror but listened to bloody screamo. He hated nicknames. He was super into Jules Verne and Doctor Who and Choose Your Own Adventure books. He made a mean scotch egg, could touch the tip of  his nose with his tongue, and couldn’t dance to save his life.</p><p>Tom loved him so much it pained him. A constant ache since they met.</p><p>It was going to end today.</p><p>“Tell me,” he said, rushing after Edward, off the bridge and down to the riverbank. The wind was playing with Edward’s hair. He looked like some dashing romantic hero, stepping from rock to rock in his sweater vest and shirtsleeves, and Tom was chasing after him through the mist.</p><p>He slipped.</p><p>“I’ve been—shit, are you okay?”</p><p>At first he didn’t feel the pain.</p><p>“You’ve been—?” he asked, and tried to stand up.</p><p>Couldn’t.</p><p>Edward called him an ambulance. Cradled his head in his lap, caressed his hair while they arrived. Begged to ride with him to the hospital. They didn’t let him, but he knew where they were taking Tom. And he was allowed visitors. And Edward just never showed.</p><p>🩰</p><p>“What the hell happened?” Tom asks softly as he places a hand on Edward’s knee. Edward stares at it. Sniffs.</p><p>“Nothing happened,” he says. “I was meaning to visit you. I was convinced I’d do it. Every day, every hour,<em> right, let’s visit Tom</em>. I got you After Eight and flowers and I wrote you a card...about five cards, not counting the drafts. I, ugh. I got you a ‘get better soon’ balloon and a bloody teddy.”</p><p>“How very nice of you.” Jopson squeezes his knee reassuringly; can’t help but say, “I only wanted you.”</p><p>“I know,” Edward says, miserable. Wipes his eyes with his fist, rubs roughly. Jopson grabs his wrist, gently, and dries his face as Edward confesses, “I got into my head.”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>“Because,” Edward says, “I got you a teddy, but that would’ve been overkill, right? And I kept wondering if I should get you—red roses, or daffodils, because you were so happy when I got you daffodils after <em>Nutcracker</em>, but I didn’t want to send you the wrong message, to uh, accidentally friendzone you in flower language—”</p><p>“The friendzone doesn’t exist,” Tom mumbles.</p><p>“I was eighteen!” Edward ruffles up his hair, a nervous gesture. His eyes are manic. Tom had never seen him this agitated, not even before a playoff game or preparing for their A-levels. “I didn’t want to refuse you, but I didn’t want to presume either. I was about to confess how I felt but never got to do it, so were we dating or—what were you expecting—shit, by the way, did you know that I was in love with you?” He looks like he’s on the edge of a panic attack. Tom keeps caressing his face.</p><p>“I loved you back,” he says.</p><p>Edward crumbles. He buries his face in Tom’s shoulder and groans, pained, long.</p><p>“I understand,” Tom says, “that emotions are confusing to a teenager.”</p><p>“Fuck, I. First it was that. I kept overthinking—and then it got late and I missed visiting hours, so I also had to think about an apology—”</p><p>Tom waits.</p><p>“—and then that was no longer sufficient, because it’d been three days, then a week, then a <em>fortnight,</em> and I definitely wasn’t going to call, we needed to talk in person, but I hated myself so much I didn’t dare to get into your line of sight, like what kind of twat—and then your brother, my god, he came to me to tell you you were back in Marylebone and I was so ashamed I was a right dickhead to him, I brushed him off—”</p><p>“He told me.”</p><p>Edward winces. Pulls back, but keeps holding onto Tom’s shirt, searches his face.</p><p>“I’m the worst kind of sorry,” he says, finally, finally. Tom parts his lips to accept it, but Edward says, “Slap me.”</p><p>“Pardon?”</p><p>“I want you to slap me.”</p><p>“I’m not going to <em>slap you</em>,” Tom whispers, outraged.  Edward straightens up, looking almost comically serious as he rolls his shoulders back.</p><p>“Punch me in the stomach then,” he says. “I’ll hardly feel it, but punch me as hard as you can.”</p><p>“It’s been a <em>decade</em>,” Tom says. “I’m not mad, don’t be silly, it’s okay—”</p><p>Edward flexes his belly. His muscles shift under his tshirt. Tom is staring. Looks up at Edward. To his lips. Back to his stomach.</p><p>Sighs.</p><p>Hits him.</p><p>There’s no force in it.</p><p>One could say he’s just putting his fist to his abs to test if they’re as firm as they look, even though Edward has a bit of tum, and <em>ah</em>, he's fantastically solid. Tom caresses up to his chest. Their eyes meet again.</p><p>“You could make it up for me,” Tom offers. “For all the bad, clumsy sex we missed.”</p><p>Edward groans, but arches into Tom’s palm. “Can’t bloody believe you loved me back.”</p><p>“I <em>will </em>slap you if you tell me you didn’t know.”</p><p>“I hoped, but why would—”</p><p>“Pish, don’t <em>start</em>.”</p><p>“You were fantastic and I left you to rot.”</p><p>“You just left me with a broken leg in a hospital, it’s fine.”</p><p>“It isn’t fine, who does that?”</p><p>“You did.” Tom cups his face, burying his fingers into Edward’s muttonchops. He’s grown. He’s changed. He’s sorry. Tom leans in for a kiss. Edward pulls away before their lips could meet, apologetic.</p><p>“Do you have a Kleenex?” he mumbles.</p><p>Tom pats down his useless chinos with one hand. “Um.”</p><p>“Please, I wanna kiss you.”</p><p>“Hang on.” He grabs for the basket, feeling utterly ridiculous, but in such a liberating way. They were so young, and so stupid. Mostly Edward. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, searching through the groceries, “but did you ever seek professional help for anxiety?”</p><p>“Yeah. I’ve been on Xanax for the past five years.”</p><p>Tom peers at him, his snotty nose, his teary eyes, the sad set of his lips. “Oh dear,” he says, “is <em>this </em>how you’re like on Xanax?”</p><p>Edward shrugs. “I think I got my therapist infected with anxiety,” he says with a hint of smug pride. “She’s considering Prozac for the both of us. But we, uh, have it under control.”</p><p>“Glad to hear that,” Tom says. Scowls at the basket, then reaches over the counter to help himself to a napkin. The movement catches Mr. Blanky’s eyes, who looks at Edward.</p><p>“All right there, coach?”</p><p>Edward blows his nose into the napkin. “Splendid.”</p><p>“Don’t break his heart, Jopson, Hannah will never forgive you.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t dream of it.”</p><p>Mr. Blanky smiles at him, winks. It’s an exhausted smile, and even more exhausted wink. The later it gets, the more people come, steadily filling up the pub. Somebody must’ve left a devastatingly good review on TripAdvisor: the turnout is astonishing.</p><p>“Need a hand, Mr. Blanky?” Tom calls. Mr. Blanky waves it away. “I mean it.”</p><p>“Well, if you could do the dishes for old times’ sake.”</p><p>“Be back in a minute,” Tom tells Edward, and jumps over the counter with practiced ease. The sink is close: they can keep up the conversation. Jopson grabs an apron and a sponge, feeling very much at home. A bit of cleaning is just what he needs to cool down a bit. It’s not even a favour.</p><p>“You used to work here?” Edward asks, leaning on an elbow. </p><p>“At one point, between seasons,” Tom says. Edward looks awed, as if he just revealed something brilliant. Tom basks in the attention, free of guilt now. He may or may not push out his bum a bit. “It was after <em>Swan Lake</em>,” he chats. “I was finally playing the Prince, not the bloody footman—I thought I’d always be the footman. I didn’t even want to audition, but I liked the director, although she was rather...peculiar. She uh, brought live swans to the rehearsal for us to study their movement. I kept hiding in a corner. Wasn’t going to break a bone again.”</p><p>“C’mere,” Edward says. Tom looks over his shoulder, as coquettish as he can manage. “Gotta kiss you.”</p><p>He can’t resist that offer. Bends over the counter; makes it dirty, quick, licking over Edward’s lips. He pulls back, and their eyes meet. There’s a promise in Edward’s gaze; it’s utterly filthy.</p><p>“Bet we could finish earlier,” he says in that wonderful voice of his, “if I helped you.”</p><p>“Oh, I hope you don’t like to finish early.”</p><p>Edward grunts. God, the noises this man makes. He used to be so silent and timid. He kneels on the counter, ready to climb over, and while the visual is certainly appreciated, Tom would rather not have shoes on an eating surface. He steps up to Edward and lifts him up as he would a dance partner, and he’s about to set him down pronto when he catches Edward’s expression.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Edward says nothing, just kisses him. Tom holds him in his arms, mindful how he manages his weight (he is <em>delightfully </em>heavy, he can’t wait to have all this weight on top of him) and kisses him back deeply.</p><p>🩰🏒🩰</p><p>Edward doesn’t get the joke until they’re coming up the walk to the cottage and he sees the sign—<em>Sea Esta Cottage</em>. He’d spelled it differently in his head.</p><p>“We’ll go in the back,” Tom says softly. “In through the garden, take the stairs up.”</p><p>He’s still holding onto Edward’s hand.</p><p>Edward nods. Squeezes Tom’s fingers.</p><p>(Once they get upstairs, he’ll get to touch him. He’ll get to put his hands on Tom’s body. He’s been aching for this for years. He’s not sure he ever stopped wanting Tom, not once. Thoughts of what it might be like to have Tom underneath him, to be inside him, to have Tom coming on his cock have dominated more of his fantasies than he’d like to admit over the years, and tonight, it’s happening. He’s going to make it happen. He’s going to do his damndest, at least. He hopes he can do it. He’d like to be invited back at some point.)</p><p>The garden is wild and well-loved. There are a bunch of plants Edward doesn’t recognize, and then a bunch more plants that he doesn’t recognize. He’s following behind Tom, watching the back of Tom’s neck. The back door to the house is unlocked.</p><p>“Shoes off, please,” Tom says, and Edward toes his trainers off, pushes them next to Tom’s loafers so they’re out of the way. God, even their shoes look good together.</p><p>Edward turns, looking for the stairs. He’s so close to Tom that their bodies brush together, and as much as he wants to go upstairs, he also wants this—one hand on Tom’s waist, the other intertwining their fingers together. Tom makes a soft noise of surprise, and Edward leans in, kisses him, delicate and gentle, before letting him go. Tom keeps holding his hand as he tugs Edward toward the stairs, leads him up.</p><p>The entire cottage is neat and perfect, art hung nicely—photographs, almost all of it, blown up and framed, arranged artfully, exactly the kind of homey place that Tom deserves to live in. It has a distinctly nautical theme, the perfect little beach cottage. It feels like Edward is being welcomed into Tom’s life again, into a more personal part of it. Not just his favourite teashop, his pub—but his  <em>home</em>, and soon, his <em>bedroom</em>.</p><p>(His <em>bed</em>.)</p><p>“Just here,” Tom says, and he opens the door at the top of the stairs, motions Edward inside.</p><p>Oh, fuck, this is where Tom <em>lives</em>. Edward steps inside, onto a plush throw-rug that gives pleasantly under his socked feet, like that long-ago sensation of curling his bare toes into lush grass.</p><p>“Bedroom’s just through there,” Tom says. “Condoms are in the bedside table, help yourself, I’ll be right out.”</p><p>Edward nods, distracted. There’s just—so much to see, so many things to take in. There’s art hung on the walls here too—all black and white photographs, churches and rolling hills and tundra, stretching out as far as the eye can see. The entire room is neat, organized, everything he expected it would be with some astonishing incongruities that Edward wants to catalogue and memorize—the glint of something glass on top of one of his shelves, a pair of moccasins not-quite-lined-up under the bed, a receipt sticking out of a book set casually on the corner of his small desk.</p><p>“Go <em>in</em>, Edward,” Tom says from behind him. Puts his hand on the small of Edward’s back and pushes, gently, and Edward takes a few steps forward.</p><p>The decisive click of the bathroom door shutting to Edward’s left jolts him out of his reverie. God, this is it. This is the bed Tom sleeps in, neatly made with a navy comforter, and a neat arrangement of pillows at the head of it. It would make any hotel proud, except this is much more comfortable than any hotel Edward has ever been in.</p><p>The faint sound of water running permeates into Edward’s head, and he gives it a shake, shoves it back out of his eyes. Bedside table, Tom had said, so that’s where Edward goes, tugs the drawer open. It comes out faster than he expected, and he very nearly drops the entire thing on his foot. Curses softly, bends down and puts the drawer back in before remembering that he needs to grab a condom out of it.</p><p>Looks at the contents. Blinks.</p><p>There are rather a lot of condoms, every size and texture one could want. Little single serving packets of lube, mostly brands that Edward doesn’t recognize. He flicks through the foil squares until he sees his usual brand, plucks it out. Grabs a couple of packets of lube as well, sets everything within reach on the bedside table. Glances at Tom’s bed. Experimentally presses down on the edge of it. Firmer than he expected, but the pillows are soft.</p><p>Edward takes a deep breath. Exhales. He can feel the adrenaline humming in his blood, welcomes it as he reaches over his head, grabs his shirt and tugs it off over his head. Balls it up same as he usually does, and then realizes he’s not about to toss it in the corner of Tom’s room. Shakes it out. Folds it awkwardly. There’s a white rocking chair right by the door, nothing on it, under it, or near it save for some poetry books, so it should be safe. He paces over, sets the shirt down. Tugs his sweatpants a bit lower on his hips. Gets a glimpse of himself in the mirror hung on the wall, and curses audibly. Brings his hands to his chest, starts scratching at the short strips of tape over his nipples. The edges are curled, and it’s easy enough to loosen them, but he hadn’t been as careful putting the tape on this morning as he should have been, and he loses chest hair when he yanks the strips off. He grimaces, flips both nipple rings so that they hang down. Shoves the wadded up bits of medical tape into the pocket of his sweats. Shifts from foot to foot.</p><p>Fuck, it’s been years since he’s shared a bed with Tom Jopson, and he’s just as nervous now as he was then, even though nothing had happened. Years ago, he’d only suspected it might feel nice to kiss him.</p><p>Now, he knows.</p><p>He’s not sure whether he should take off his sweats and his boxers or leave them on. The socks, definitely, should go, so he tugs those off, tosses them on top of his shirt.  Edward tugs his sweats away from his body, looks down. Okay. Boxers are reasonably flattering. Those can stay on. It’ll take him two seconds to get out of the sweats. Those can stay on too. God, this is worse than pre-game jitters. He’s played hundreds of games. This is his first time fucking Tom.</p><p>“Well,” Tom says from behind him. “Look at you.”</p><p>Edward turns.</p><p>Tom is in a maroon and black striped dressing gown, open at the chest all the way down to his waist. The robe is loosely belted, and it would slide undone at the merest touch of Edward’s fingers. There’s not nearly the amount of oxygen in the room there should be. Edward’s head is spinning. His cock is hard. He <em>wants</em>.</p><p>“Fuck,” he says softly.</p><p>“I thought that, yes,” Tom says. His smile is sharp, eyes bright. “You’ll top, Edward?”</p><p>“Uh-huh,” Edward says. “Definitely. Yes. Fuck.” He swallows. “You look amazing.”</p><p>Tom does a little spin, maintains eye contact with Edward as long as he can before his head pivots at the last moment. The robe flares out, displaying long, bare legs. “Thank you.” His eyes drop to Edward’s cock, slowly drag up his body. He tilts his head, steps forward. Flicks at one of the rings with his finger, and Edward shudders, goosebumps breaking out on his arms. “Are these new?”</p><p>“Lost a playoff bet a couple of years back,” Edward manages. “Most of the guys took them out after, or lost their nerve before.”</p><p>“And you liked them,” Tom says, stepping in close. Puts both his hands on Edward’s chest, thumbs playing with the nipple rings. “So you kept them.”</p><p>“Y-yeah.” Edward sucks in a breath, sways into Tom. His skin feels tingly, and he whimpers when his cock bumps up against something firm.</p><p>Tom slides his hand to Edward’s back, and then into his sweatpants. Grabs Edward’s arse, tugs Edward in close, grinds against him. “I’m keeping my dick on. You don’t mind?”</p><p>“Don’t mind at all—God, that’s good,” Edward breathes. He puts his hands on Tom’s dressing gown, ruts his cock up against Tom’s. “You want me to suck it?”</p><p>“Mmm,” Tom says, guiding Edward backwards toward the bed. “I think I’d like to get all our clothes off first. Ah, no, hands away from yours—here, stand right over here, would you?”</p><p>Edward interlaces his fingers behind his neck, takes a deep breath. Curls his toes in the throw-rug. Watches the way the robe clings to Tom’s arse as he turns, bends. Sorts through the pillows on the bed, keeping some and discarding others. Pulls back the comforter.</p><p>The sheets underneath are crisp white and perfect. Edward’s heart is loose in his chest, rattling around unhinged. He grounds himself in watching Tom, the way Tom flicks at the edge of his dressing gown, sits down on the bed, propped up against the pillows. His eyes fix onto Edward’s body, and Edward flexes, deliberately, tightens his abs and his arms.</p><p>It’s worth it for the way Tom’s eyes widen, just slightly. For the way his tongue darts out and licks his lips, for his hands going to the belt of his robe, tugging the knot free.</p><p>“Go ahead,” Tom says, voice low. “Strip for me, Edward.”</p><p>Edward reaches down, shoves his sweatpants and boxers off in one movement. There’s no point trying to conceal his cock with his hand—and, anyway, he wants Tom to look. Wants him to be impressed, wants him to want—</p><p>“Edward,” Tom breathes. “Get over here.”</p><p>“Gladly,” Edward says gruffly. He leans over, kisses Tom deeply, mouth open, tongues touching. Clambors onto the bed without breaking the kiss, hands on Tom’s thighs over the robe. “Wanna rub my cock on you.”</p><p>“Ah? What’s stopping you?”</p><p>“Don’t wanna fuck up your robe,” Edward mutters. “Can I open it up?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Tom says, arching up into the kiss. “Let me.” He shoves a hand down between them, wrist brushing up against Edward’s bare cock, almost by accident—but then Tom’s hand is there, squeezing at the base of his cock, and Edward gasps into Tom’s mouth.</p><p>“So good, Tom,” he says. “God, I love—” Swallows. “—your hands on me.” It’s like Tom knows exactly where to touch him, exactly how tightly to grip him, exactly the kind of light touches that drive Edward to distraction, hardly able to think for Tom’s tongue in his mouth and Tom’s fingers on his cock. Tom, Tom, Tom. <em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>“Can’t wait to have this in me,” Tom says. He takes his hand off Edward’s cock, shifts the robe out of the way. Does something with his hand, and then there’s a faint buzzing sound. “But yeah, grind on my cock first if you want.”</p><p>Edward tilts his hips, drags his cock against Tom’s—and oh, fuck, it’s rumbling, slightly. “Feels amazing,” he says. Kisses the corner of Tom’s mouth, moves to his neck and kisses him there too. God, Tom’s skin smells good. Like the ocean, like clean linen. He rolls his hips against Tom’s cock again, his flesh cock against Tom’s silicone one, shudders when the vibrations echo through his body. “That nice for you?”</p><p>“Very,” Tom says. He shrugs out of the top of the robe, wraps one arm around Edward’s neck and lifts his back off the bed, grinding up against Edward.</p><p>“Me too,” Edward manages. He’s not used to the vibrations, and they’re amazing. He’s not used to Tom holding himself up against Edward either. He’s not used to any of this. “What, uh. What do you need?”</p><p>“Prep me?” Tom asks.</p><p>“Oh, god, you’ll let me,” Edward murmurs. “Yes, hold a sec.” He shifts their weight onto his left arm, reaches with his right for the lube packets.</p><p>Tom chuckles breathlessly in his ear. “Oh dear, don’t mess about with that, please—the good stuff is underneath, black bottle.”</p><p>“I get the good stuff,” Edward says softly, mostly to himself—but Tom hooks his leg around Edward’s waist anyway, fucks up against him. He’s wearing a harness, and the soft elastic of it is rubbing up against Edward’s hip. Edward is dizzy with it, and thank fuck he hadn’t had anything more to drink earlier, because his head is plenty fuzzy just with this, with Tom, with Tom’s body pressed against him, the silk-smooth drizzle of Tom’s good bottle of lube over his fingers.</p><p>“Mmm,” Tom sighs, and Edward drags his cock over Tom’s hip again, leans his weight into Tom’s cock to press the bullet vibrator against him.</p><p>“Here, tuck your leg—oh, wow, holy shit, you bend like that?”</p><p>“Ballet dancer,” Tom says softly.</p><p>Edward squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, because Tom with the entire length of his leg up by his ear is just—a lot. Then he opens his eyes again, presses his lips to the back of Tom’s knee. “Goddamn gorgeous, you are,” he says. “Gonna try not to mess up your lovely sheets here.”</p><p>“I have spares,” Tom says. His hand is between them, loosely curled around the base of his cock. “Open me up, Edward.”</p><p>Edward exhales. Drags the back of his hand down Tom’s thigh, and then presses the tips of his wet fingers against Tom’s arse. Hangs his head as he presses his index finger <em>in</em>.</p><p>Tom feels amazing. Tight, and hot around Edward’s finger. Edward presses deeper in, and Tom sighs, bends his leg and taps his heel against Edward’s back. “I won’t break,” he says, that lilt of amusement in his voice—and then Edward curls his finger, and Tom’s eyelashes flutter as he tilts his hips into it. “<em>Oh</em>, like that, Edward.”</p><p>“That’s right,” Edward says. Drags his finger slowly out, and then presses two fingers back in. “You’re good for this.” Closes his eyes again, because <em>fuck</em>, he doesn’t know if <em>he’s</em> good for this. If he’s gonna be able to keep it together after wanting this for so long. God, the drag of Tom’s arse against his fingers is fantastic, the way that his muscles are progressively relaxing, making room for Edward’s cock.</p><p>“Hah,” Tom says, exhaling hard. “Curl your fingers again?”</p><p>“Like this?” Edward asks, looking up at Tom—and oh, fuck, he’s gorgeous like this, head back in the pillows, hair loose around his face and fallen out of its regular style. “This what you want, Tom?”</p><p>“You,” Tom breathes, arching up into him. “Your cock. <em>This.</em>”</p><p>“Bloody hell,” Edward says. He scissors his fingers inside Tom, then gently pulls them out, pats Tom’s hole with his knuckles. Reaches up to the bedside table for the condom, and then straightens up so he’s kneeling on the bed, tears the package open, puts it on. He can ignore how badly he’s shaking.</p><p>He can’t ignore the fact that Tom is touching himself, biting his lip. His cock is perfectly framed by the straps of the harness, and Tom is giving it slow, languid strokes. It’s a gorgeous cock, and Edward reaches out tentatively, puts his hand over Tom’s.</p><p>Glances up.</p><p>“Suction,” Tom says, voice low. “Works like a stroker, here—like this, I want you to touch me like this.”</p><p>Edward swallows. Blinks. Mimics the movement the way Tom has shown it to him, and oh, god, he is rewarded when Tom’s breath catches and he sighs, eyes fluttering closed. The silicone has a nice texture in his hand. This is what it’s like to touch Tom’s dick; this is what it’s going to be like to get him off.</p><p>“Relax for me,” Edward murmurs, and he steadies the base of his cock with his other hand, widens his knees a bit to get at—fuck, he doesn’t need to change the angle at all, Tom has already moved, arching his hips up into Edward’s hand, bringing his own arse right to Edward, and all Edward has to do is focus on touching Tom as Tom fucks himself on Edward’s cock.</p><p>(He wants to do well, he wants to be what Tom needs, he wants this, and only this, for the rest of his life.)</p><p>“Fuck, that’s good,” Edward says. “You don’t have to—take it all if you don’t—<em>Tom</em>—”</p><p>Tom smiles at him, glances down at the place where their bodies are joined. “You wanna get me off like this before we switch positions?”</p><p>“Do I wanna—fuck yes,” Edward says the moment that the question processes. God, he can feel Tom’s heat through the condom. (They’re going to switch <em>positions</em>.) He’s still stroking Tom, careful and steady, and the only thing saving him right now is that he’s still learning the best way to get Tom off, and devoting as little attention as possible to his own cock, balls-deep in Tom’s arse. He shifts his hips carefully, grinds into Tom nice and deep. “Wanna get you off.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Tom says, tilting his hips and pressing up against Edward. “Can you keep—yes, keep doing that—and fuck me a bit at the same time?”</p><p>Edward shifts his other hand so that it’s under Tom’s arse and starts fucking into him with short, sharp thrusts, watches the way Tom’s mouth falls open and he moans, softly. “Yes,” Edward says. “Yes, like that, Tom.” Glances down at them, together—fuck, it feels amazing—a full-body thrill that’s set his skin tingling and his head spinning. Edward holds his breath, looks up at the ceiling for a moment. Thinks about breakout formations. Tries not to think about how good he’ll feel when he comes.</p><p>Tom is panting underneath him. “Edward,” he says softly. “Edward, <em>please</em>.”</p><p>Fuck, how could he not look? Tom is all wide blue eyes and dark eyelashes, his lips parted, laid out naked on his bed. Edward glances down at him, only meaning to take a moment—but that’s it, he’s sunk, buried in the line from Tom’s chest hair to his belly button to his treasure trail, the straps of his harness and his cock in Edward’s hand because he trusts Edward to do this, he trusts Edward to treat him well, he trusts Edward’s cock in his arse, knows that Edward will—</p><p>“You’re going—to—” Tom exhales hard, turns his head into his pillow. “Edward, you’re going—make me come, can you—please, I just—oh, oh, I—” His hand slaps down over Edward’s, stilling them both on his cock, pressing the vibrations up tight against his body. “I—”</p><p>Edward growls, thrusts into him hard. Tom twists on the mattress underneath him, his hips pressed hard against Edward, their legs rubbing together.</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>,” Tom says, his entire body going tight for a moment before he relaxes, shivers. His mouth goes soft when he comes, and there’s a brief moment when he scrunches his nose, and it’s the most beautiful thing Edward has ever seen. “Oh, yes, thank you—Edward, thank you—”</p><p>“Fuck,” Edward says. “Fuck, look at you—fucking gorgeous.” He strokes his fingers down Tom’s arm, from his elbow down to his wrist, glides his fingertips gently along Tom’s hands.</p><p>Tom shudders again, then lifts his head, looks at Edward curiously.</p><p>Edward can feel his hard cock twitch inside Tom, and it’s an effort to hold still, not to lean forward and just fuck Tom through the mattress. “Um, yeah?”</p><p>“The stamina on you,” Tom says, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’m impressed.”</p><p>“Don’t be,” Edward mutters. “Had to think about hockey for a minute there.”</p><p>Tom laughs, reaches into his harness and disables the bullet vibe. “Got you that close, did I?”</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, Edward thinks, <em>I’ve been that close since we started.</em> “The legs on you,” he says instead.</p><p>“Here,” Tom says. “Lay back—you can admire them while I ride you.”</p><p>“Please,” Edward says—and it comes out as more of a whine than he intended. Shifting over onto his back is awkward and it shouldn’t be, he’s an athlete, but it feels like his limbs are the wrong length, like the unfamiliarity of Tom’s bed is making him clumsy, and maybe part of the problem is that he can’t stop staring at Tom, who is <em>glowing</em> in the aftermath of the orgasm that Edward had given him. “Oh, <em>fuck</em>.”</p><p>The corner of Tom’s mouth lifts in a smile as he reaches for the lube, gracefully drizzles it into his hand and reaches for Edward’s cock. His eyes drop as his fingers curl around it to slick Edward back up again. It looks like he approves.</p><p>Tom gracefully switches to a kneeling position, stares into Edward’s eyes as he slowly sinks back down onto his cock.</p><p>Edward sucks in a sharp breath. “Fucking hell.”</p><p>“The locker room mouth on you,” Tom says, delighted.</p><p>“Sorry—”</p><p>“No, it’s wonderful, don’t stop.” Tom rises up on his knees, thighs tight, and then slowly lowers himself down again. His movements are controlled, precise, elegant—exactly like the dancer he is, and Edward could watch him forever and never get tired of it. There doesn’t need to be music—he knows Tom is moving to the rhythm of something Edward can’t hear, and he’s just happy to be able to benefit from the result. “I like knowing what I’m doing to you.”</p><p>“Doing me in,” Edward manages. <em>God</em>, Tom is tight and slick and absolutely gorgeous to look at, and Edward wants this to go on forever even though he’s very, very conscious that it absolutely won’t.</p><p>Tom reaches up and fixes his hair, pushes it back behind his ear. “Do you have any particular feelings about the way you might like the rest of this to go?”</p><p>“Uh, I—” Edward swallows, gasps as Tom rolls his hips, clenching on Edward’s cock. “Fuck, no, I—god, fuck me, Tom, would you—” He takes another ragged breath. Can’t think. It doesn’t matter. Not when it’s Tom. When it’s already the best. “Do—what you—<em>fuck</em>, whatever you want.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Tom says. He leans forward like he’s telling Edward a secret, bracing himself on his hands, slowly moving his arse on Edward’s cock. He moves like it’s effortless, even though Edward can see his muscles shifting under his skin. Moves like everything is already planned, predetermined, like he’s pulling Edward along with him, and <em>god</em>, Edward wants to go. To come. He wants...</p><p>(Edward bites his lower lip. Doesn’t look down. Just a little longer, he wants to keep fucking Tom just a little longer...)</p><p>“How do you like it, usually?” Tom asks. “Do you want me to keep riding you like this? Do you prefer doggy? Do you want to fuck me up against the wall? Shall I bend over, touch my toes? Or should I sit in your lap, Edward?”</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, he can’t concentrate. Can hardly focus, it’s just—it’s Tom, and the way he looks, and the way he smells, and the muscles of his thighs contracting, the lazy way he’s moving on Edward’s cock, the slight flush to his cheeks from his own orgasm, and that little half-smile that Edward never forgot, not ever, not once, not over all the years they spent apart—</p><p>“That last one,” Tom says decisively. “Your face gives it away.”</p><p>Edward nods. “You were always—so good at deciphering—things I didn’t say.”</p><p>Tom stops moving, smiles fondly as he slowly pulls off Edward’s cock, immediately starts stroking Edward with his hand. “You’re not as difficult as you think,” he says fondly. “Sit up for me.”</p><p>Edward curls up, puts his hands on the side of Tom’s face and kisses him, open-mouthed. Fuck, he can’t get enough of this. Can’t get enough of Tom’s mouth and his eyes and the way he smiles, the way he’s laughing into Edward’s kiss. The way Tom lowers himself back onto Edward’s cock, wrapping his legs around Edward’s arse, and settling into his lap.</p><p>“Oh,” Tom breathes. “Fuck, you’re deep like this.”</p><p>“Is it—”</p><p>“Wonderful,” Tom says. “It’s wonderful, Edward.” He cradles the side of Edward’s face with one hand, feels up Edward’s back with the other.</p><p>Edward leans back, braces himself on his hand, starts thrusting his hips, sharp and short. “And now?”</p><p>Tom groans, fingers curling in Edward’s hair. “Better. How long can you do that?”</p><p>Edward laughs, presses his forehead against Tom’s. His thighs are burning, and so is the arm he’s supporting himself on, and he doesn’t care. He’ll fucking crawl out of bed tomorrow morning if he needs to, just as long as he can make Tom happy tonight. “Long as you need to get yourself off again.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Tom asks. He works his hand in between their bodies, flicks the vibrator on again. “Prove it.”</p><p>“Sounds like a challenge,” Edward growls, and he tightens his grip in Tom’s sheets, braces himself and starts fucking up into him faster and sharper.</p><p>Tom moans, his eyelids fluttering.</p><p>“That’s right,” Edward slurs. “Get yourself off on my cock, Tom.”</p><p>“Two orgasms,” Tom manages, “to your one—hardly seems—fair—”</p><p>“Shoulda been four,” Edward says. “Fuckin’ shower you in orgasms, Tom, god, you feel so good—fuck, you feel amazing—I love this, love fucking you—wanna keep you close—couldn’t believe it when I saw you—you’re so handsome—amazing—fuckin’ tripped on the ice, and I never—never—do that—fuck, I won’t last—”</p><p>Tom gasps, curls forward and buries his face in Edward’s shoulder, muffling the sounds as his entire body tenses, his heels digging into Edward’s back, his fingernails into Edward’s shoulder, and all Edward can think as his mind whites out is that with legs like this, Tom would be viciously fast on a set of skates.</p><p>🏒🩰🏒</p><p>Tom is laying in his thoroughly debauched bed smoking a cigarette while Edward washes his cock by the sink. Life is great. Tom asked Edward to open the windows, so he’s enjoying the breeze. He did not ask him to leave the bathroom door open, but he likes the view. Edward looks splendid in the afterglow. The rush of lust is drained from Tom; what remains is a pleasant buzz, low in his belly, pulsing in his loose limbs.</p><p>He’ll wash up in a minute, when Edward leaves.</p><p>Change the sheets.</p><p>Air the room well.</p><p>Clean his cock, put away the lube.</p><p>Hide the evidence.</p><p>Edward was never here.</p><p>Well. He should let himself remember this. That’s the point of the entire thing. To have this memory, rewarding, gratifying, of a naked Edward trotting about in his bathroom, looking for a towel. Tom could tell him which one to use. He could, but then Edward would dry up, say <em>ta </em>and <em>that was fun</em>, and be on his merry way. Tom wants him to linger a bit. He looks at him through the thin smoke, making sure he memorises every detail of him, worries that he’ll fail—will he remember his tousled hair? How it clings to his nape exactly? The set of his brows, his fuzzy muttonchops, the pattern of the freckles over his shoulders? Lower, lower—his peaked nipples, the treasure trail, that thick cock of his—Tom is glad to be acquainted with it, finally.</p><p>Edward huffs happily when he locates the cobalt-blue handtowels. Holds up one with a question in his eyes. Tom nods.</p><p>He’ll mourn the loss of that cock, but he’ll miss this more. The ease of intimacy.</p><p>He wouldn’t be caught dead lazing around in his sweat and come by any other partner.</p><p>He prides himself on being prim and proper.</p><p>(Most dates wouldn’t even know he smoked.)</p><p>He can be himself with Edward. Just himself. Not Thomas Jopson, principal dancer. Not the cute guy from Tinder. He can just be.</p><p>Edward walks over to him. Tom doesn’t rise to speak, feels no need to plaster on a smile, just flicks his cigarette into the ashtray on his stomach. He’s content. Pleased.</p><p>Edward Little fucked him.</p><p>(Fucked him very well.)</p><p>That’s a thing off the bucket list. Like seeing the northern lights for the first time. Like being cast for<em> A Winter’s Tale</em>. Walking out to the dark stage, ballet shoes in hands, at the first rehearsal, and looking at the empty rows of the audience, rows and rows of velvet chairs, think, <em>they will come to see me</em>, know,<em> I deserve this</em>. The slip of silk as he removed Ma’s makeshift blindfold fashioned from her shawl, showed her the little flat, <em>it’s all yours</em>. His brother’s shit-eating grin one summer day, <em>guess what? I got in.</em> How Tom just nodded at it, <em>of course you did</em>. Francis pouring his last bottle of whisky down the loo. That sense of the stars aligning. It was always going to end well.</p><p>The mattress dips as Edward sits beside him, and for a moment, everything feels perfect. Then even better, as Edward touches the towel to his skin. It’s warm. Tom hums, trying to hide his surprise as he sucks on the last of his cigarette. He did not expect Edward to clean him, but it feels so right that he would, offer this kindness as farewell. He wipes Tom’s neck, his chest, even his armpits.</p><p>“Ticklish,” Tom whispers.</p><p>“Then I won’t stop until I make you laugh,” Edward replies, as if it is the most natural thing to say. He cares too deeply; about everything; that has always been his best quality, and also his flaw. Tom can’t take his eyes off him: the perfect lips that kissed him, the noble line of his nose, and those frankly unfair eyelashes. Edward looks as morose as ever, but Tom can still read his moods, knows him to be playful now, even mischievous, betrayed by the slightest smirk as he runs the towel down Tom’s side, makes him gasp and chuckle. Tom’s toes curl when Edward wipes his cock, glances at him, hooking his thumbs in the harness. Tom feels shameless when he nods his consent. He really shouldn’t—push this any further, it’s an ungodly hour, he’s usually in bed by ten, he has an early practice tomorrow, but oh—</p><p>The night air pouring in the window is too sweet, fragrant with the scent of flowers, the sea, and Edward is revealing his slit to it, and it’s such a relief; Tom makes a face feeling how sticky he is, shifts and furrows his brows when Edward rubs the towel between his legs. Edward stills his hand.</p><p>“No?”</p><p>“Yes, just—I’m sensitive, it feels too rough.” Distracted, he pats at the nightstand. He has some tissues here, somewhere, but he won’t tear his gaze away from a naked Edward kneeling above him just to locate—</p><p>“I could use my mouth,” Edward says.</p><p>Tom pauses.</p><p>“To clean you up,” Edward clarifies.</p><p>Hell.</p><p>Tom’s knees fall open before he can think about it.</p><p>“Be my guest,” he says, gesturing at himself. There’s nothing attractive about it. He’s tired. Sweaty. He won’t put in any effort, and Edward is thirty-two, he won’t get hard anyhow, so this is really just—</p><p>Edward bows his head.</p><p>—a favour, and that somehow makes it more—</p><p>Dips his tongue into him.</p><p>—precious.</p><p>Tom shudders, gasps. He needs a second cigarette. He grabs Edward’s hair instead. Guides him to a strategically more important point, damn the rest of the mess, he needs Edward’s tongue right there. Edward seals his lips around it and starts sucking, head bobbing. Tom hisses, closes his thighs around his head, pulls him closer.</p><p>So. This is the Edward Little experience.</p><p>To be treated so well.</p><p>Spoiled rotten.</p><p>It’s admirable, that—(a spasm)—Edward would give it—(warmth)—his everything, even when—(velvet)—there’s nothing to be gained—(that wicked tongue of his). Tom is not used to letting himself be pampered; he has things under control, including his own pleasure, but this is in lieu of a goodbye kiss, this is to say, <em>we shared this, shared me</em>.</p><p>The orgasm has him gasping before a bone-deep sense of satisfaction sets in, the kind that makes him want to pull Edward closer and get the blanket over them, rest forever. Edward grabs the tissues, because of course he would, finishes the job he was set out to do, and then kisses Tom, and that’s when Tom knows he’s doomed.</p><p>“Out with you,” he whispers gently, and Edward smiles at him like he doesn’t know that Tom is close to begging, and that if he keeps smiling, Tom will get down on his knees.</p><p>“Where’s, um—”</p><p>“Rocking chair.”</p><p>“Right. Yeah.”</p><p>Tom wraps the comforter around himself, feeling just a bit too exposed, and it has nothing to do with the lack of clothes. He sits up in bed, watching Edward gather his stuff, and he must be really tired, or fucked silly, because he almost says, <em>stay</em>.</p><p>“Well,” Edward says, his shoes in his hands and his shirt on backwards. “It was nice seeing you?” He visibly cringes.</p><p>“The pleasure was mine,” Tom says, chipper, before Edward can correct himself.</p><p>“You shouldn’t let me talk,” Edward says, desperate.</p><p>On his way out, he dips in for a kiss. Tom doesn’t know how he’ll be able to ever stop kissing Edward. Neither of them pull away. The comforter slips down his shoulders, falls to his lap.</p><p>Edward kneels on the mattress.</p><p>🌺🌺🌺</p><p>It’s a pleasing summer evening, if James does say so himself, the kind that warrants leaving the floor-length windows wide open and letting the cool, salty breeze in as one lounges in on the leather sofa, reading, a glass of fine wine at hand; Tokaji is preferable. Francis sits next to him with a quilt over his lap, cradling a hot water bottle, but he doesn’t complain of the chill, God bless him, and refrains from reminding James’ severely immunocompromised self of his most recent case of pneumonia. He lets him be: lets him enjoy a breath of fresh air and watch the curtains dance between turning pages. The garden looks wonderful in the moonlight, and James is glad he talked Francis into installing solar lamps so he can marvel at his primroses and lilies no matter the hour. They really are quite splendid, in rich, perfumed bloom, framing the path a half-naked young man is tiptoeing through.</p><p>James tilts his head and marks the page with a finger as he takes in the figure.</p><p>The young man looks vaguely familiar.</p><p>He has an excellent memory for faces and names; the identity eludes him still, but the man stops long enough to pull on his shirt, which gives him some insight.</p><p>“Francis?”</p><p>“Yes, love?”</p><p>“Did you know that ice hockey players can have their nipples pierced?”</p><p>Francis looks up from his phone, squinting behind his tortoise-shell reading glasses. He’s frowning so heavily his eyebrows disappear behind the frame. “I didn’t know, no.”</p><p>“One learns something new every day,” James remarks mildly, and returns to his book.</p><p>The silence is filled with the whispering of leaves and the answering murmur of the dark sea.</p><p>“Aren’t you reading a book on beekeeping?” Francis asks at length.</p><p>“Why, yes.” James takes a long sip from his cut glass, and turns a page.</p><p>“Huh,” Francis says. Shakes his head, turns back to his phone. The garden door creaks in the distance.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><span class="u">Content warnings:</span><br/>- Memory of Edward accidentally <b>misgendering</b> Tom when they first met; Tom wasn’t hurt, but if you’d rather not read a discussion of high school gender dysphoria, stop reading at “Remember when we first met?" and skip to “I shouldn’t have disappeared like that.” We learn in the interim that Tom and Edward were best friends, and Edward was a great comfort for Tom in a difficult time of his life.<br/>- Edward jokes about his <b>anxiety disorder.</b> Stop reading at Tom saying “Don’t take this the wrong way” and pick up at Blanky saying “All right there, coach?” if you’d rather avoid self-deprecating humour.</p><p><span class="u">Authors’ Note on collaboration:</span><br/>Autumn <a href="https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1206580388224733189">tweeted about</a> her idea of a hockey player/ballet dancer AU, which inspired Oochilka to draw <a href="https://oochilka.tumblr.com/post/612973381589008384/ballet-dancer-tom-and-hockey-player-ned-and-all">this fanart</a>, which in turn inspired ktula and Autumn to actually write the damn AU (and they also couldn’t get over Oolchika’s <a href="https://oochilka.tumblr.com/post/189462523479/im-bringing-you-teenage-emo-mutant-joplittle">emo Joplittle piece</a>, so it got incorporated into the AU with the artist’s permission). The entire fic was planned together by Autumn and Ktula. Edward's POV was written by Ktula; Tom’s POV &amp; the Fitzier cameos by Autumn.</p><p>We’re on twitter! Autumn is <a href="https://twitter.com/forautumniam">@forautumniam</a> and Ktula is <a href="https://twitter.com/heyktula">@heyktula</a>. </p><p>Chapter 2 updates on Saturday! Meanwhile, we humbly offer you a moodboard for your <a href="https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1292099385774440449">retweeting</a> / <a href="https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/625890456721555456/latent-heat-by-heyktula">reblogging</a> consideration</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please find <b>content warnings</b> in the end notes</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Edward is in love.</p><p>He realises this halfway back to the bed and breakfast he’s been staying in. Slows his pace, stops.</p><p>Sits down on the sidewalk, and puts his head in his hands, breathes the cool night air, tries to calm his heart, which hasn’t stopped racing since...um, well. If he’s completely honest with himself—he thinks it’d picked up when he’d stepped out of the pub with Tozer, turned, and thought to himself—<em>is that Tom?</em></p><p>
  <em>Am I that lucky?</em>
</p><p>And he had been, he had been—far beyond his wildest dreams, even. He’s spent an entire evening with him, he been to his favourite teashop and pub, to his home, he’s fucked him well (he hopes), he’s—he’s—</p><p>Edward exhales, leans back on his palms and stares up at the sky. It looks entirely different here than it does in London—there’s stars, for one thing, though he doesn’t recognize any of the constellations. The moon is full, and bright, and he kissed Tom tonight, and his lips were sweet and he fit against Edward so perfectly, and it felt so much like the obvious culmination of—of Edward’s entire life, really.</p><p>(He’s grinning. He’s sitting on the cold concrete grinning his arse off, and he feels the muscles in his face ache, because when was the last time he’d smiled like this? Playoffs, maybe—but probably not, because even then, he’d been irritable with his own performance, perfectly conscious that there’d been room for improvement in his own game even if Terror had done well.)</p><p>He’s in love with Tom Jopson. Furthermore—he may never have <em>stopped</em> loving Tom Jopson. It’s like his entire life has come into focus, and the answer hadn’t been all that complicated in the first place.</p><p>Edward Little loves Tom Jopson, and that’s that.</p><p>He gets up off the street and, whistling, continues the walk back to the bed and breakfast.</p><p>🏒</p><p>He’s awake again at five am, out on the balcony attached to his room, turning Tozer’s vape pen over and over in his fingers. He leans his head back against the brick, exhales a vape cloud and watches it dissipate into the early morning air. Grimaces at the aftertaste left in his mouth—strawberry and something citrusy. Tips the pen to the light, hopeful that maybe it’s nearly empty—but, no, he’ll be smoking Tozer’s stuff for a while.</p><p>He brings the heel of his hand up to his eyes, rubs at them. Takes another drag. Alright. Don’t overcomplicate it. Don’t freak Tom out. Just...he’ll need to ask, obviously. That’s where he’d fucked it up last time, he hadn’t actually asked, and it had set everything all falling to pieces. Asking would be appreciated, he thinks. It doesn’t need to be complicated. Just, like. A gesture. Something to start the process of repairing the wounds that Edward’s caused over the years. The neglect and the lack of contact, the shows he missed, the times he didn’t send flowers, everything from now all the way back across fourteen years, every award Tom had won—he must have won awards, look at the way he moves, there’s no way he hasn’t—</p><p>Edward exhales a cloud of vapour, pulls out his phone. Taps in Tom’s name for the first time ever, and—yes, sure enough, there have been awards over the years.</p><p>Quite a number of them, actually.</p><p>They look prestigious. Edward doesn’t know shit about ballet, but Tom looks lovely in each of the photographs. Distinguished and elegant, and a little cool, perhaps, maybe. (Cooler than he is with Edward, at least, because last night, Tom had been nothing but warm and responsive.) Edward hadn’t missed a single one of Tom’s performances when they were still in school, even when he’d had practice bright and early the following morning.</p><p>He’s missed rather a lot since.</p><p>Maybe...he just needs not to overthink this. Maybe it would be better to just reach out to Tom in a normal way. Like, um. Edward squints at his phone, keeps scrolling through the search result until he sees something that looks personal.</p><p>Ah, there.</p><p>
  <em>Thomas Jopson (@thomasjopson) | Instagram photos and videos</em>
</p><p>He takes a deep breath, forgets the vape pen is still in his mouth and momentarily chokes on vapour, covers his mouth with his arm while he coughs to keep from waking anyone else up.</p><p>Picks his phone back up once he’s recovered himself, and looks at Tom’s feed.</p><p><em>Oh</em>, he thinks. It’s just…</p><p>...Tom looks so <em>happy</em> and it’s both everything that Edward ever wanted for him, and also something that Edward wanted, something that he <em>missed</em> because he’s a fucking idiot who couldn’t get over himself.</p><p>(The most recent post is from last week—a slightly blurry selfie of Tom outside the pub that he’d taken Edward to last night, only this time Tom has his arm slung around a massive black Newfoundland dog. Tom is grinning, and the dog’s tongue is hanging out, and Edward would have taken the picture if he’d been there.)</p><p>The post before that is captioned <em>glad to be back home!</em> and features Tom standing at the base of a statue, leg extended over his head and arms out wide.</p><p>Edward swallows. Fuck, the goddamn <em>legs</em> on him. He’d had his legs wrapped around Edward’s waist just hours ago, and Edward knows first-hand exactly how his thigh muscles feel.</p><p>(He wants Tom again, already.)</p><p>Before he can worry about it too much, Edward signs up for an account, navigates back to Tom’s profile, and sends him a message.</p><p>
  <em>edwardlittle87: hey</em>
</p><p>There. Done.</p><p>He goes back to scrolling through the rest of Tom’s photos. There are pictures of the harbour, both with and without the dog. Pictures of his little wicker basket stuffed full of fresh veggies, and the subsequent meal prep and homemade food, selfies taken after workouts and runs, Tom beaming up at the camera, and he’s gorgeous in every single one of the shots, even when he’s only partially in frame..</p><p>(Fuck, a one-word message isn’t good enough.)</p><p>
  <em>edwardlittle87: I had a really wonderful time last night.</em>
</p><p>Flips back to Tom’s feed, and keeps scrolling. Here he is in his dressing room, here he is mid-rehearsal, here he is on opening night. God, the things Edward has <em>missed</em>.</p><p>
  <em>edwardlittle87: I’d like to see you again? Take you on another date.</em>
</p><p>There’s quite a bit that Edward needs to make up for.</p><p>Edward takes a last drag off the vape, and then flicks it off, sets it back down. It’s still early as hell, but there’s no way he’s going back to sleep. Not when he’s thinking about Tom, not when it’s such a nice day out, not when he’s so excited to hopefully have the chance to see Tom again. (God, it’s going to be <em>so good</em> to see him again. Is it too much to hope that it’s tonight? It’s probably too much to hope for. God, though, he leaves tomorrow, and he wants tonight to work out.)</p><p>
  <em>edwardlittle87: What I mean is that I’d definitely like to see you again. Tonight, if you’re free?</em>
</p><p>God, Tom’s smile could melt ice. His eyes look like the ocean. His arms feel so good wrapped around Edward’s shoulders. They’d made love, and it was perfect. Tom had let—no, he’d <em>wanted</em> Edward to fuck him, he’d wanted Edward to use the good lube and hadn’t minded the mess they’d made of the sheets, and Tom had looked so gorgeous lying there afterwards, the glass ashtray balanced on his stomach and the smoke from his cigarette curling up and toward the window. He seemed exhausted, but so, so happy.</p><p>
  <em>edwardlittle87: :)</em>
</p><p>Okay. Edward is going to be cool about this.</p><p>And maybe it’s easiest if he just...starts at the start. Starts where he should have started in the first place, with the hospital visit, with Tom’s broken leg, with the <em>Get Well Soon!</em> card that he should have sent then.</p><p><em>Yes</em>, Edward thinks, watching the sun start to come up over the harbour, and fidgeting with the vape pen. His heart is still racketing in his chest, but this—this makes sense. He thinks. He hopes. Please let it make sense—or, at least, if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else, let it at least make sense to Tom, because it’s Tom’s opinion that matters, and it’s Tom’s opinion of him that Edward is trying to fix.</p><p>He’ll start at the start, at the place where it all went wrong to begin with.</p><p>And, he thinks, leaning back against the wall so he can watch the rest of the sunrise, maybe he’ll dig through some more of those google results while he’s waiting for the shops to open.</p><p>He’s got a lot to catch up on.</p><p>🏒</p><p>It’s Edward’s third visit to the shops, and he would be despairing if he weren’t also shaking with nerves at the same time. The shopkeep had given him a look, yes, when he came back this last time—the final time? Please, God, let it be the final time—but there was literally not a pen to be found back in his room, and it didn’t seem correct to write in Tom’s card with pencil. And it has to be a handwritten note.</p><p>(Okay, fine, the <em>fourth</em> visit is the last time, because it doesn’t seem correct to give Tom a card with Ilfracombe misspelled in it either.)</p><p>Just to be sure, he ducks into the closest alley and writes the card there, holding it up against the brick and carefully printing the message on it. If he fucks it up again, the shop is right there, and he won’t have to suffer the shame of walking all the way back from his room again. (He’s a little nervous that people are starting to notice.)</p><p>The texture of the brick is still vaguely visible in the ink, but everything is spelled correctly this time. Edward pockets the pen, hesitates. He’s seen teammates get cards from girlfriends with lipstick kisses on the bottom of the card. There’s no male equivalent that he’s aware of. He sticks the card in the envelope, seals the envelope with a quick swipe of his tongue, and a grimace against the taste of the glue.</p><p>There. That’s done.</p><p>He’ll just walk over to the cottage, pop the envelope under the back door, and it’ll all be looked after.</p><p>🏒</p><p>Though. It would be a shame to just give Tom a card, after everything—and an envelope by itself might be missed, but an envelope with a small gift attached? That couldn’t be missed, no matter how busy Tom is.</p><p>Edward shoves his hands in his pockets, starts off down the street. He’s got to walk over to Sea Esta Cottage anyway, it surely won’t hurt to stop in at a few more shops on the way. After all, it’s a tourist town. They probably thrive on people like Edward.</p><p>🏒</p><p>Edward sneaks back into the garden of the cottage a handful of hours after he last left it, feeling just as accomplished now as he had last night, though slightly more sore. (Now that he’s past the heat of the moment, his thighs are definitely burning from last night, but it’s nothing he can’t work out on the ice, and he’d fuck Tom again immediately even if it wrecked every muscle in his body. Edward is supposed to be at the rink today anyways. He can’t remember if the thing later today is on ice or off, just that there’s autographs involved with it, but he can probably grab twenty minutes to lace up quickly and just whip around the ice a few times, work the kinks out.)</p><p>The shops had exactly what he was after, and he’s carrying a giftbag with Tom’s name on it, a little nautically-dressed teddy bear sticking his head out the top of the bag, sailor cap jauntily perched between his little round white ears. The bear’s eyes look remarkably human, but the overall effect is still charming, if slightly disconcerting in a way that Edward thinks Tom will appreciate. He stops just before opening the white picket gate, checks the bag again to make sure everything is there. Sailor bear, check. Envelope with Tom’s name on it and Edward’s mobile number printed underneath, check. Wildflowers arranged in a little spray of colour that Edward thinks, maybe, will match the decor in Tom’s bedroom, check.</p><p>Okay, so. Where to hang the bag where it will be seen? Edward casts his eyes along the rest of the garden, tries to see—ah, there. By the back door, there’s a small bench, a little place where a pot of flowers could be hung. It’ll be easy enough for Edward to hang the giftbag there, creep back out of the garden, and rest easy knowing that Tom will get it when he gets it. Okay. Good. Perfect.</p><p>The back gate creaks slightly as Edward eases it open, and he winces, lets go of it immediately, and goes up on his tiptoes to sidle the rest of the way in. Hopes that no one in the house is awake—or, at least, if they are awake, that they aren’t looking out any of the back windows at this particular juncture. He’ll only be here for a moment, anyway. He leans up against the stone bench, and the leftover chill from last night cuts right through his sweats. Reaches up and hooks the handles of the gift bag onto the plant hanger, waits a moment to make sure—ah, yes, perfect, it’s not going to slip off, and it’s very obvious from the back door, so the moment Tom comes out, he’ll see it.</p><p>Brilliant.</p><p>Feeling satisfied with himself, Edward heads out the back gate again, carefully eases it up a little as he swings it closed so that it doesn’t creak. He’s just settled the latch back when his phone makes an unfamiliar noise in his pocket.</p><p>He reaches into his pocket, pulls it out, swipes it open. It’s an Instagram notification.</p><p><em>thomasjopson:</em> 💗💗💗</p><p>Edward grins at his phone like a damn idiot.</p><p>(He’s still grinning at his phone a moment later when he hears Tom call out his name.)</p><p>🏒🩰🏒</p><p>Edward Little keeps turning up like a bad penny.</p><p>Not like Tom is complaining.</p><p>Not when said Edward Little is this cute, frozen mid-movement, looking like he’s actively trying to turn invisible. He holds up his phone like a shield, attempting to hide behind it, then raises both hands in surrender.</p><p>“I didn’t know you’d be here.”</p><p>“I live here,” Tom says, leaning out of the window. His voice is creaking a bit. It’s early. He just woke up; woke up to a series of sweet messages from Edward, which he read while brushing his teeth. He happened to glance out from the window wistfully and spotted him lurking in the garden in his tracksuit and Gucci flip flops. He thought he was a dream.</p><p>Tom goes downstairs to the garden, soft on his feet, as if Edward was a spooked deer he didn’t want to scare away. Tom didn’t even have time to put slippers on. The dewy grass caresses his bare feet, all calloused and sore. (It’s the price you pay for success. That, and the occasional loneliness.)</p><p>“This is awkward,” Edward says as Tom approaches the gate. “I didn’t mean to stalk. I just—”</p><p>“I know,” Tom says, holding up his own battered old phone. Edward glances at it. Bites his lips.</p><p>“Right,” he says.</p><p>Tom should put him out of his misery. Too bad he’s so adorable when he’s embarrassed. He puts a hand over Edward’s chest in greeting, bewildering him completely; he can feel his heart beat, his breath catch. Edward looks at him like he’s a <em>wonder</em>. Tom basks in his attention, going on tiptoes to kiss his forehead, even though he could reach it easily. He even kicks out a leg.</p><p>“Hey,” he whispers.</p><p>Edward crumbles. Grasps at him, pulls him into an embrace. The gate presses against Tom’s hips as Edward’s hands slips under the silk pyjamas (a short-sleeved affair with matching shorts in baby blue, a much appreciated present from James). Edward traces the line of his spine, the careful touch shockingly intimate. Tom laughs, nearly giggles, buries his face in Edward’s neck.</p><p>He thought he saw the last of him.</p><p>Now he can safely admit he’d have missed him. Missed him rather badly.</p><p>He pulls away, shy like he hasn’t been in years; it feels like the morning after his first hookup, and he’s giddy with it. It’s unreal, that this man here had been so close to him, it feels absurd to wear clothes in his presence, to stand here when they surely ought to be lying in bed. It felt so natural to feel Edward’s weight atop him, the thickness of his cock within, everything slotting into place.</p><p>(He promised himself he won’t romanticise it.)</p><p>Then Edward slid into his DMs.</p><p>He adjusts his hair nervously, glances away. Notices something strange.</p><p>“Is that for me?”</p><p>“Shit. Don’t open it,” Edward says. Tom arches an eyebrow at him. “I wasn’t supposed to be here,” Edward explains, putting his weight on his left foot. Tom anticipates the nervous swaying before it starts happening. “You were to, ugh, just find it, and decide if—you, eh—liked me. It. Liked it.”</p><p>Tom tilts his head with feigned innocence. “Is it a surprise?”</p><p>“Yes,” Edward says, relieved that Tom understands.</p><p>“Consider me surprised, then.” Tom gives him a coy smile as he turns on his heels (then on his tiptoes—it develops into a perfectly executed chaîné, he can’t help it. What’s the point of ballet if he can’t twirl when he’s happy?) He glances over his shoulders to check if Edward really doesn’t want him to open the gift in his presence—but he’s stopped swaying, looking on with bated breath, and there’s something in his gaze that Tom could only describe as <em>hunger</em>.</p><p>(He makes sure to jut his bum<em> just so</em> as he walks among the blooming irises, gives Edward an eyeful as he arches for the gift bag.)</p><p>“Tasteful wrapping,” he notes approvingly. He has to speak up a bit, praying they won’t be overheard. He has no idea how to explain any of this. Edward dropped in out of the blue. Turned his life upside down. (He was supposed to be gone. Hit and run. Tom spent the last decade convinced that was his style. Didn’t it make sense that Edward would be done with him, now that they both got what they wanted?)</p><p>(Did they get what they wanted?)</p><p>“Spent a solid forty minutes picking it,” Edward grumbles bashfully. He’s leaning over the gate to see Tom’s reaction better. He doesn’t open it, although the latch is easy to reach, and he’d already entered once. Clearly, he’s giving Tom the lead. It’s up to him what happens next.</p><p>What does he want to happen?</p><p>(<em>I’d like to see you again? Take you on another date.)</em></p><p>He was eager to say yes. Couldn’t. He was thinking about his reply, what he ought to say—because if he says yes, if there will be another date—</p><p>The gift bag reveals a card, flowers and a teddy.</p><p>Tom makes a pathetic sound peering into it.</p><p><em>Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me. If I gave you another chance, you could</em>.</p><p>(But would he?)</p><p>“Surprise,” Edward says, and Tom makes the mistake of glancing at him—his gentle smile, the way he rubs his neck.</p><p>“I love him,” Tom says. Touches the bear carefully. Takes him out of the bag, hugs him. It’s been a while since he’s been given fluffy things; little nothings; a while since anybody looked at him the way Edward is looking, eyes full of stars.</p><p>“I hoped you would,” he says earnestly. “The card has my number, you could, uh, text me. Even call.”</p><p>Tom takes in Edward’s awkward handwriting. His heart is doing a grand jeté. One that doesn’t land well.</p><p>
  <em>Sod this for a lark. </em>
</p><p>Risking pain is part of the process. That’s the first thing you learn about ballet.</p><p>
  <em>Time to be brave, Thomas.</em>
</p><p>(It helps inspire confidence that Edward has freckles in the summer.)</p><p>“Come pick me up after practice,” Tom says. “I’ll be at the rec centre until two thirty.”</p><p>“Two thirty,” Edward repeats, beaming. Drums on the gate. “Great! See you then. I’ll—leave you to it?”</p><p>Tom stands with his little gifts, tokens, promises. He wants to walk back to Edward, give him a goodbye kiss, flirt coyly. Do his <em>thing</em>.</p><p>But his <em>thing </em>is easy. It doesn’t often involve second dates. Strings attached. Hearts bared.</p><p>He worked so hard never to be vulnerable again. Edward will have to leave, come Sunday. Leave him behind again. And asking him to stay in touch after what, a bloody weekend together is too great of a request.</p><p>“See you,” he says. Makes the teddy wave.</p><p>
  <em>Bollocks. </em>
</p><p>🩰</p><p>He walks into the living room much distracted, clutching the bear to his chest. He must look haunted. A mess.</p><p>(He feels exhilarated.)</p><p>“Ah, Jopson,” Francis greets him from the sofa. Neptune is slumped against him, and so is James, both soaking up his warmth as he works on the laptop. “Who’s your new friend?”</p><p>Tom holds the bear tighter as he heads to the open kitchen. “Eddie the teddy.”</p><p>James pokes Francis with his nose. “You never got me a teddy.”</p><p>“I got you a house.”</p><p>“With no plush bear in it, mind you, which is my point.” James sighs heavily. “Oh, to be barren of bears; so unbearable.”</p><p>Tom settles Eddie on the kitchen counter by a plate of lemons, careful as he can be, then rummages the cabinets for a vase. He hears Francis saying, “I’m pretty sure bears of all kinds have a restraining order against you after you shot fireworks—”</p><p>James scoffs. “I was trying to scare him off. He was advancing on you.”</p><p>“I had it under control!”</p><p>Tom successfully locates the milk glass vase he had in mind, which is a minor miracle in this house. He fills it with water while James and Francis continue to bicker. Arranges the flowers in it. They look hand-picked. Tom has a vague idea whose garden suffered from Edward’s amorous mood. They’re so pretty, and his heart aches with it. Such pretty things. They should never wilt. If he takes care of them, they’ll bloom as long as they can. He just has to give it his best.</p><p>“...Birdshit Island,” Francis mumbles.</p><p>“Don’t <em>start</em>.”</p><p>“A little haven, you said. No tourists anywhere. A hidden gem.”</p><p>“Well, there weren’t any tourists.”</p><p>“For a <em>reason</em>.”</p><p>“Nat Geo paid you in <em>gold </em>for that report, so shut it. Grumpy-grumpy.”</p><p>“It wasn’t supposed to be a report. It was supposed to be our <em>honeymoon</em>.”</p><p>The flowers smell incredible. Yarrow, bluebell, teasel, honeysuckle. Maybe he could dry and press them. He always liked pressing flowers. Does Edward remember that? (Did Tom ever tell him that he kept the daffodils Edward got him?)</p><p>“At least we shared a unique experience,” James says.</p><p>“One we shall never forget.”</p><p>“None of that basic ‘oh, let’s go to France’ rubbish.”</p><p>“Darling, I will take you to Côte d’Azur as soon as you feel better,” Francis threatens while Tom adds some finishing touches to the bouquet, making sure the stems are the same length. “We will have a beach holiday. With sweet, <em>sweet </em>cocktails and potted palm trees and sunbathing. No locals, just the company of fellow holiday makers dancing cha-cha-cha <em>badly</em>. Won’t go near the sea, I’ll lock you in the hotel’s spa. Five stars. The pool’s water would still ruin your hair.”</p><p>“You wouldn’t dare,” James whispers. Tom smiles at the vase, nods to himself, then sneaks towards the staircase with the teddy and the card safely tucked away.</p><p>“I’ll throw away your camping supplies,” Francis goes on. “Why hike when I can hire you a helicopter to transport you to picturesque places? Pose atop the Himalayas for a solid five minutes then fuck back to your hotel. Adventure is dead. Enjoy your postcard holiday, your sightseeing buses and <em>souvenir magnets</em>.”</p><p>James’ scream is strangled. Tom closes the door behind himself, puts his back against it. Smells the flowers again. He leaves his face buried between the petals for a bit. (He’s not hiding.) He never thought he’d want what Francis and James have. Love is not for him. He’s convinced himself of it. He was looking for a good lay, not a <em>soulmate</em>.</p><p>But it’s Edward Hecking Little.</p><p>It’s all or nothing.</p><p>
  <em>(What I mean is that I’d definitely like to see you again.)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>(See you then.) </em>
</p><p>Oh, God. To be seen.</p><p>He tears the door open. He can hear Francis rambling about Disneyland, and James’ cries of horrified protest.</p><p>“James!” he calls, shouting over both of them. The silence is immediate. (He doesn’t think they’ve ever heard him raise his voice.) He clears his throat. “May I borrow the flamingo floatie, please?” he says softly.</p><p>🩰🏒🩰</p><p>Edward is early to the rec centre. Awkwardly so. He can’t bring himself to care. The weather is beautiful outside, the sun is bright as hell and high in the sky, and he gets to pick Tom up from dance practice. There’s no wind, and he’s pretty sure he caught a glimpse of the swan disappearing into an alley on the way over, and even made note of the bakery it was beside so he can tell Tom about it. The heat makes the hot coffee he bought on the way over a bit dumb, but it gives him an excuse to duck into the rink to finish drinking it while he waits. His brain is a mess. He gets to pick Tom up from dance practice.</p><p>(He wants, desperately, to be calm and collected when he picks Tom up. Knows that he won’t be, that there’s no possible way for that to be an achievable thing. The best he can hope for is that the ice grounds him a bit, and he doesn’t make too much of an ass out of himself. Or that when he does, Tom finds it charming. Maybe Tom will want to be kissed again. Maybe he’ll want—no, Christ, he can’t think of that, not now, not when he still remembers how Tom tasted as Edward cleaned him up, not when he still remembers the way Tom’s thighs locked around Edward’s ears as he came. All those fucking useless years of having sex with people who weren’t Tom, and he’s got a chance, now, to make it right. To take Tom out again, and again, and again, fuck it, he can do long distance if he has to, just to start to make up for all the stuff he’d fucked right up the first time.)</p><p>His skin prickles with goosebumps when he pushes open the door into the stands, and he reflexively shivers, and takes another sip of his drink. Lets the coffee burn its way down his throat. The stands are empty, and the ice nearly so—the zamboni is whirring away down at the far end. The driver is wearing noise-cancelling headphones, so Edward takes advantage of the secrecy to sneak down to the penalty box, his flip-flops slapping on the stairs as he descends. Once there, he settles on the bench. It’s a penalty box much like any other penalty box—which is to say, there’s bits and pieces of childish graffiti scribbled onto the wood, and scuffed up rubber flooring, scored by blades. Edward shifts on the bench, leans back and watches the zamboni as he finishes his coffee. The goals have been removed and the beautifully shiny fresh ice shines next to the boards, with the scuffed-up surface still exposed in the middle.</p><p>(There’d been a pretty big gouge back behind the goal—a couple of the kids had been messing around with the pick on a set of figure skates during public skating a couple days ago—and Edward watches as the operator stops the zamboni, jumps down, and scoops snow from the bucket on the side onto the rough patch, poking at it with the toe of his boot until he’s satisfied. He gets back up onto the zamboni, starts it up again, continues circling around the goal crease, carefully watching the patched spot. Edward wonders if Tom ever comes here to do the same—but it’s probably not meditative for him the same way it is for Edward. There weren’t any pictures of ice on his instagram, at least. Still, though, the thought of Tom on skates...)</p><p>Edward sinks down further onto the bench when the operator starts heading back this way. It’s not that he’s not supposed to be here—but he doesn’t want anybody thinking he’s doing anything other than what he’s doing, which is just watching the zamboni, same as anybody else would. The places where the zamboni has already passed are gleaming, reflecting the ceiling lights back in a mirror finish, and there’s something almost hypnotic about the long passes from end to end across the rink, and the whirr of the machine echoing in the otherwise empty space. Edward watches the zamboni approach his end of the ice, and then glances down at his watch to make sure that he’s not running late. He’s not, not yet—but he doesn’t have much time either, and he’s not entirely sure where he’s going.</p><p>Better to be early.</p><p>He finishes his coffee on his way back up the stairs, tosses the cup in the trash and reaches into his pocket for gum. The rec centre proper is warmer than the ice, and he rolls his shoulders at the temperature adjustment, then ducks his head and starts walking—</p><p>Shit. He has no idea where he’s going. Okay.</p><p>Find a map, first. A fire escape plan or something—there. Alright.</p><p>What had Tom said?</p><p>
  <em>There’s a multipurpose room in the rec center...they’ve let me keep my barre in there.</em>
</p><p>Edward scans the map. All the likely rooms are upstairs, so he shoulders open the nearest door, starts heading up. He can hear music in the stairwell. It sounds...oddly familiar. He keeps trekking up the stairs, his head tilted to listen. The only thing that’s filtering through is the bass line, but it’s sparking a long-buried memory that he can’t quite get his fingers on.</p><p>(His heart is already pounding, and it’s not from taking the stairs two at a time, he can do that in his sleep.)</p><p>There are a couple different rooms on the upper floor of the rec centre, but only one has music filtering out from behind it. Music that Edward now distinctly recognizes.</p><p>
  <em>What’s the worst that I can say? Things are better if I stay.</em>
</p><p>Edward’s hand goes to his wrist, to adjust the watch that he wears now in place of the leather bands that he still wore the last time he listened to My Chemical Romance. He’s early, he’s definitely early—but the door is right there, and Tom is playing music that he knows Edward used to listen to, by a band they definitely discussed last night, before they fucked—</p><p>Phew. Okay. Edward walks down the hall to the rehearsal room, plans out his approach. He’s going to be calm about this. He’s going to wait outside until the song finishes. No, he’s going to knock—wait, Tom won’t hear the knock over the music, he’s going to—</p><p>—there’s a piece of paper on the door. <em>Come in</em>. It’s Tom’s neat printing, similar to the way he used to write when they were in school together, but more casual, now. Like he’s loosened up on the pen, instead of gripping it tightly.</p><p>Edward hesitates anyway, because, what if—</p><p>No, fuck it.</p><p>They had a great time last night. Edward would dearly love to fuck Tom again, and to do that, he wants to take Tom out on another date, treat him, make him feel special. Strip him down and kiss every inch of his body, lay him out on the bed and fuck him nice and slow.</p><p>Edward turns the handle, steps into the room, shuts the door behind him firmly before turning to look, and—</p><p>—it’s not Tom.</p><p>It’s not Tom at all, not his Tom, this is <em>Thomas Jopson, headliner for the Royal Ballet</em>, and he is <em>ethereal</em>.</p><p>He’s at the far end of the room right now, spinning so quickly that it makes Edward light-headed, or maybe that’s just because all of his blood has plummeted from his head straight to his cock and he’s dizzy with it. The spin is sharp and precise, his head doing that thing that Tom had explained to him years and years ago, and, oh, Tom is in leather  shoes and his legs are impossibly long, his movements precise, the muscles visible through his tights all through his calf and his thigh.</p><p>Edward leans back against the cool metal door. Swallows. Watches as Tom drops out of the spin, bends back impossibly far, his eyes shut and his arms reaching back over his head before he straightens, and holy fuck, how is that even <em>possible</em>, how can Tom even—?</p><p>There’s not enough oxygen in the room.</p><p>There’s so much emotion on Tom’s face that it’s almost too intense to watch, but Edward can’t look away, because he wants to see <em>everything</em>. There’s too much to look at, he’s not able to see everything he wants, he can’t think, it’s—everything, it’s the way that Tom extends his arm out to the very tips of his fingers, the way his movements defy gravity and physics, the impossible arch of his feet, the sheer height of him when he’s up on his toes like this. The room is too small to contain Tom’s power, and Edward gets it now, how he dominates the stage like he does, how he dances for thousands of people at a time and captures every single person’s attention at once. Even without Tom’s direct eye contact, this feels like it’s being done <em>for</em> Edward, and there’s something uncurling in Edward’s gut, something unfamiliar and rare and—</p><p>Tom looks at him, and the expression on his face doesn’t change except for a slight shift in his eyes, a miniscule change before he rises up on his toes and then throws his leg up by his ear, leans into the motion, and Edward traces the line of his leg from the tip of his toe all the way down to the bulge of his dick in his tights, and Edward’s mouth is dry and his cock is hard, and he would absolutely let Tom rail him right now.</p><p>He should look away. It’s not polite to stare, he shouldn’t—especially not at Tom’s dick, he shouldn’t—Tom invited him here to pick him up, and, yes, he was invited into the room, but he was invited into the room to—to—watch Tom walk toward him on tiptoes, every muscle in his arms on display, and oh, <em>fuck</em>, Edward wants him. Badly.</p><p>He wants to squeeze his eyes shut. He wants to keep them open forever. He watches as Tom reaches the middle of the room, throws his leg up in the air again and then, impossibly, watches as Tom sinks down on one leg until he’s on the floor. It should be impossible for him to look more graceful on the floor, but he does, and there’s no hope of Edward thinking about anything other than sex right now, because Tom is absolutely gorgeous stretched out like this, moving in perfect harmony with music that both of them remember. He’s throwing his entire body into this, his hips and his legs and his arms, and his face is completely, fully engaged with his work, a litany of ever-changing emotions as he dances, and Edward is absolutely gone for him.</p><p>The things that Tom is doing should be impossible. Edward cannot fathom them anymore—it’s like Tom weighs nothing at all, it’s like the laws of gravity simply don’t apply to him, like he balances where he wants to balance, like his body does exactly what he asks of it, no matter how difficult. He’s on the floor, he’s arching up into a bridge, he’s extending his foot up to the ceiling, he’s turned over onto his stomach, curling upward with his back impossibly bent, and then his leg is somehow in front of him as  he bends over backwards to clasp his  shoe with his other hand, and then the guitars are fading and the room is silent except for Tom’s heavy breathing, and the pounding of Edward’s heart.</p><p>Tom shakes his head, drops his arms, and swivels on his bum until his legs are in front of him. Beams a small smile at Edward, tucks his hair back behind his ear, and just like that, he’s <em>Tom</em> again.</p><p>“That was <em>amazing</em>,” Edward says. “Holy fuck, Tom.”</p><p>Tom looks up at him. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Holy <em>fuck</em>.”</p><p>“Well,” Tom says modestly. “You should see me on an actual stage.”</p><p>“I will,” Edward promises fervently. “I promise, your next show—Onegin, you’d said, I’ll be there.” He swallows. “If you’ll have me?”</p><p>Tom flashes his dimples, and extends his hand. “Of course,” he says.</p><p>Edward steps forward, clasps Tom’s forearm, leans back even though Tom doesn’t need the help, even though he rises up off the floor just as gracefully as he’d gotten down there in the first place.</p><p>(He smells wonderful, like sweat and laundry detergent and Edward glances down because he never actually looked at the rest of Tom’s outfit, but his bulge is just—right there, and Edward derails instantly.)</p><p>“You’re blushing,” Tom says, his voice right close to Edward’s ear. “Do you see something you like?”</p><p>Edward nods silently, face hot. He closes his eyes, reaches for Tom’s other arm, tries to ground himself in Tom’s forearms under his, tries to—</p><p>“Huh,” Tom says. He shifts, and then his thigh is between Edward’s legs, brushing ever-so-slightly against Edward’s cock. “Is it so different watching me dance now?”</p><p>Edward nods again. Opens his eyes. “It’s, uh.” <em>Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…</em> “You’re very good. Which, like, sorry, obviously you’re good, you’re, uh. Sorry, I’m an idiot.”</p><p>Tom studies his face a moment, and then leans in, brushes his lips against Edward’s cheek. “You’re very sweet,” he says.</p><p>Edward whines, snaps his mouth shut before the rest of it escapes. If his face was hot before, it’s burning now, all the way up to his ears and down his chest, and he wants to tugs his clothes off, strip down and let Tom fuck him into the floor, watch Tom’s arse flex in the full-length mirrors as he drives into Edward, fucks him into oblivion, deep and intense and it’s all Edward can do not to grind on Tom’s thigh. He can imagine it perfectly, the slide of his track pants on the cotton of Tom’s tights, and his hands on Tom’s hips, underneath his loose shirt, fingertips tracing the sweat on Tom’s lower back and forehead resting on Tom’s shoulder.</p><p>Tom’s mouth twitches, just slightly, and Edward takes a step back.</p><p>“Sorry, I—”</p><p>“No, no,” Tom is already saying. “It’s not you, it’s—I had to rehab my quad in the spring, it still hurts sometimes. Here, let me get my shoes off, I’ll stretch out while we’re chatting.”</p><p>Edward exhales, watches as Tom folds himself in half and slides his leather shoes off his heels.</p><p>“Would you mind,” Tom says. “My bag, over against the wall there—could you grab me a set of socks, please?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Edward says, thankful to have something to focus on outside of how hard he is, and how fucking good Tom looks, and how badly he wants Tom to take him apart. He walks over to the gym bag, crouches on the floor and peers inside. A battered paperback, a folded sweater, armwarmers, fingerless gloves, a couple scarves, stretch bands and a foam roller. Edward digs a little further in. A ziploc bag with instant ice packs and a small container of paracetamol, tensor bandages, sewing kit, a soft pair of black slippers and, finally, a neatly folded set of socks in the very bottom that Edward retrieves, and takes over to Tom.</p><p> Tom is sitting cross-legged now, each foot resting on the opposite calf. “Ah, thank you,” he says, reaching for the socks. He grimaces, slightly. “My feet are a nightmare, you won’t sleep for a week if you watch me cool down with them bare.”</p><p>“I think I’d sleep fine,” Edward offers.</p><p>“Mmm,” Tom says, slipping off his shoe and sliding the sock on immediately, then repeating the movement on the other side. “All the same, I can cool down like this just as easily.” He stretches his feet out in front of him, and then bends over, wrapping his hands around the arches, and pulling. “How was your day?” he asks, his voice muffled by his thighs.</p><p>“Uh, good,” Edward says. “Yeah, I, uh.” He watches as Tom spreads his legs, rests his forehead on the floor between them a moment before propping himself up on his elbows and gazing up at Edward. “Walked around a bit. Shot the shit with Tozer. Ate lunch. Watched the zamboni. Came and got you.”</p><p>“Sounds productive,” Tom notes, shifting until he’s leaning over to the side, and stretching his arm up over his head.</p><p>Edward shrugs. God, he wants to touch Tom right now. Wants Tom to touch him. He can see sweat soaked through on the tank top Tom is wearing underneath his loose shirt, and he wants to strip all clothes off Tom with his teeth.</p><p>“—been?”</p><p>Edward grimaces. “Uh, sorry, I wasn’t…”</p><p>Tom grins at him. “The beach,” he says. “Have you been? Would you like to take me?”</p><p>“Please,” Edward says immediately. “And no, I haven’t, it sounds lovely. Good. I’m sure it’ll be—um.” Fuck, his words are falling all over themselves, and he shuts his mouth so he doesn’t sound stupid.</p><p>(God, though, he wants Tom’s thighs pressed up against his own, wants Tom’s hands on his hips, Tom’s dick in his ass, the cool sea breeze on Tom’s bare back, and sand in Edward’s hair.)</p><p>Tom rolls gracefully onto his back, points one socked foot, and pulls his other knee to his chest, slowly extends his leg so that his toe goes back past his ear.</p><p>Edward exhales. He should definitely look away. Try focusing on something else. But if he turns away, he won’t be able to see this. God, he wants Tom to—</p><p>“Do you want to come downstairs with me?” Tom asks curiously. He lets go of his leg, points it straight up in the air, and then stretches it out across the floor, pulls his other leg up to his head. “The changerooms are nice, and there’s never anyone there at this time of day.” He arches his back just a little, tips his head back and makes eye contact with Edward upside down. “I’m nice and relaxed from my workout, we could have a quick fuck in the shower if you wanted to. If that would help you relax.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” Edward mutters. He tugs at his own hair, shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I, uh. Would love that, I just.” <em>Fuck me, Tom, fuck me, please, fuck me.</em> “I don’t have lube or condoms or anything, I don’t want to put you out.” He slides his hand down to the back of his neck, exhales. “It’s fine, Tom. I can wait.”</p><p>“If you’re sure,” Tom says.</p><p>Edward nods. “Yeah. I can—wanna give you a real date, you know?”</p><p>Tom smiles, bright with a flash of teeth. “Oh, Edward,” he says. “It’s real either way.” He rolls up off the floor, glides his eyes down Edward’s body. “Though. Definitely nicer with lube, considering how thick you are.”</p><p>“God,” Edward says softly. Scrubs the heels of his hands over his eyes. “Don’t make me second-guess turning a quickie down.”</p><p>Tom laughs, picks up his gym bag, and leans in close, presses his lips to Edward’s ear. “I’ll just be a moment changing—this is your last chance to join me.”</p><p>Edward squeezes his eyes shut. “Christ, Tom. I’m gonna do this right. Please let me do this right.”</p><p>There's no immediate response, and Edward cautiously opens his eyes, ready to apologize, take it back—but there's no need.</p><p>Tom's staring at him, wide-eyed, sweaty, and a bit vulnerable. "Okay," he says. "Okay."</p><p>🏒🩰🏒</p><p>It’s cloudy outside, but the air is balmy. Tom feels great. He’s freshly showered, smelling like burning ice if the bottle is to be believed, dressed in speedos, a linen shirt and a cute little straw boat hat. He’s radiating all the seaside charm he can muster. His limbs are loose, well-stretched, all his joints back in place; everything is back in place.</p><p>Edward walks by his side.</p><p>He even volunteered to carry Tom’s gymbag. It shouldn’t make him feel so special, but Tom lets himself bask in it anyway. He wants to hold Edward’s hand, but he’s occupied with the flamingo floatie thrown over his shoulder and the beach bag, which is James’ and of enormous proportions. (Eddie the teddy is peeking out of it.) He’s going through a mental list to see if he packed everything, then halts just by the tunnel leading to the beach.</p><p>“Shoot,” he says. “We didn’t grab your swimtrunks.”</p><p>“‘Sokay, I didn’t pack them.”</p><p>Tom frowns at him, nose crunched in affected judgement. “You came to Ilfracombe with no beachgear?” </p><p>Edward shrugs, nonchalant. “We can always buy a set.” He gestures at the nearest shop with colourful nets and inflatable boats on display. Tom bites back an argument about how overpriced everything is in there. Edward is wearing Givenchy shades. He’ll be fine.</p><p>“Neat,” he quips. Edward looks really good in his fancy sunglasses. He’ll look even better in swimwear. Tom can suspend being a control freak for a hot minute. He ogles him openly as Edward leads the way to the shop. Why is he so adorable? There are no answers. Edward is <em>dashing</em>, and there’s that, there’s something in his composure, the way he holds himself, and everything just—becomes him, the sunlight in his tousled hair, the muttonchops and the stubble, the dark tank top stretching over his proud chest as he holds the door open for Tom. Tom slides past him and it takes all his willpower not to rub his bum over Edward’s trackpants which were so <em>wonderfully </em>tented for him half an hour ago. Nobody has popped a boner for his dancing before.</p><p>(Well. He <em>thinks </em>nobody has.) </p><p>(There must be people with ballet-related kinks?)</p><p>He diverts his attention by looking through the kitchy goods. Edward and him used to laugh at stuff in Asda. Edward would pick up some ludicrous-looking stationery and make a face. Tom never liked grocery runs until he met Edward. True enough, it used to grate on his nerves a bit, how carelessly Edward filled his basket with anything within reach while Tom debated if he could afford milk that week; and he felt a tad humiliated whenever Edward paid for his things, but relieved too; God, the sheer <em>relief </em>of having Edward in his life, by his side, it used to be so nice.</p><p>It’s even better now.</p><p>He picks up a pair of purple swimtrunks decorated with the aubergine emoji and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Edward scoffs, a surprised half-laugh shocked out of him, and Tom grins, impish.</p><p>“Hot,” Edward comments.</p><p>“I’m aroused beyond measure.” Tom hands them over.</p><p>“Is this a dare?”</p><p>“Perhaps.”</p><p>Edward nods, serious. “‘Am getting them.” He starts looking for the cash register.</p><p>“No-no, I can’t possibly let you wear those,” Tom objects, still smiling. His face hurts from how much he’s been smiling lately.  “How about these? Navy’s a good colour on you.” </p><p>Edward lifts the aubergine trunks. “These ones made you laugh,” he says, as if that would settle the matter.</p><p>Something clenches in Tom’s chest.</p><p>🩰</p><p>Edward makes the aubergine trunks work. It’s bewildering. Tom knows the trick, that Edward is too busy judging himself to give a damn what anybody else thinks, but God, confidence suits him. Tom keeps doing a double-take, stealing glances at him as they search for a good spot on the black-soiled beach. Pale waves crash against giant, jagged cliffs. It’s still a bit windy today, so there aren’t as many families as usual: the sea is in a mischievous mood. Even the twenty-thirty people present and politely scattered feel like too much. Tom wishes they had this little nook all for themselves.</p><p>He’d commit unspeakable acts of deviance.</p><p>“Have you ever had sex on a public beach?” he asks, addressing Edward’s junk. Edward gapes at him, wide-eyed behind his sunglasses. “Not an offer,” Tom adds, chipper. “Just curious.”</p><p>“Never. Have you?”</p><p>Tom drops the beachbag in the shade of a mossy rock. “Had to lose my virginity somehow.”</p><p>“You <em>didn’t </em>lose your virginity on a public beach,” Edward says breathlessly.</p><p>“He was a lifeguard. He had his own little...bodega-thing. Quite convenient, I must say.” He gets the beach mat and a large striped towel. “Still counts as public.”</p><p>“How old were you?”</p><p>“Twenty-five. Didn’t really want sex until I was comfortable with my body. Well, sex with somebody else beyond me.” <em>Beyond you.</em></p><p>“You’re very good at it,” Edward says awkwardly, then crouches down to help with the towel. The wind keeps tugging at it; they get stones to pin it down.</p><p>“Thank you, I had practice.”</p><p>Edward scoffs again. Their eyes meet. The distance the towel puts between them is unbearable. Tom climbs on it on his hands and knees, gets the sunspray from the bag, presents it to Edward. “Do me?” he offers.</p><p>Edward blinks, glances up quickly. It’s clouded over.</p><p>“UV,” Tom explains, innocent.</p><p>They lock gazes again. Edward’s glare is direct and intense even with the shades. It makes Tom feel deliciously naked. Wanted.</p><p>“Wasn’t going to refuse,” Edward murmurs, climbs to him. Tom reminds himself that there are other people on the beach. People who don’t wish to witness what he dearly wants to do with Edward.</p><p>Edward takes the bottle from him, caresses his knuckles without breaking eye contact. It’s small things like this that make it quite difficult to follow the law.</p><p>(It’s not a large town. People know him. He couldn’t possibly—)</p><p>He lies back slowly, looking at Edward while his hand finds its way to his shirt’s buttons. He’s undressing for Edward. Just for him.</p><p>The wind carries the scent of seaweed. The cliffs tower over them like solemn guards. This place feels ancient; hidden; he presents his naked torso and feels one with the landscape, not a bit out of place, because he belongs here.</p><p><em>I’m home</em>, he thinks. Knows it to be true when Edward starts touching him, kneels by his side and rubs the sunlotion on his skin. It feels like he’s getting anointed. Edward caresses him worshipfully; he has that look on his face he did at the rec centre, when he watched Tom dance.</p><p>Tom relaxes into the sun-warm soil. Closes his eyes to revel in Edward’s touches. He takes special care to cover his arms, his legs; he takes such good care of Tom. It’s safe with him. He’s safe.</p><p>“Turn over,” Edward whispers. There are noises all around them. Seagulls. Chatter. Happy shrieks. Faint music. Tom ignores all of it. When he turns to his belly, he’s ready to be breached. He imagines it, the rest of the world fading away and Edward peeling off Tom’s tiny speedos, exposing his pale arse, pressing his hard prick inside. Tom clutches the towel, remembering how it felt. How full he was of Edward; how he could barely clench around his fat cock, and he wants it again, wants Edward again, more of him, all of it, every inch.</p><p>Edward strokes his neck, his shoulders and back, touching him like he touched him this morning, like he needed to hold on to Tom to anchor himself, and Tom wants to offer: <em>I’m here, use me, focus, stay. </em></p><p>He arches his neck to look at Edward, his strong hands working on his calf, and the heat is so welcome, it makes his muscles sing; he curls his toes, and Edward notices it, and knows what it means, that Tom needs him. He climbs atop him and Tom hardly has time to roll over before Edward is kissing him. Finally, Edward is kissing him.</p><p>He’s such a thoughtful kisser. Tom is more messy, eager, but Edward takes his time, mindful of the sunglasses, savours his lips, probes with his tongue; the scrape of his teeth sends a shiver down Tom’s body and his hips buck with it. Edward presses down, stills him. He’s half-hard in his ridiculous swimtrunks already.</p><p>“Behave,” he whispers.</p><p>Tom’s hips jerk again.</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>Edward exhales slowly, takes off the shades and buries his face in Tom’s neck. Kisses it, absent-minded. He’s probably trying to calm himself. The momentary twitch of his hips is not unnoticed: how much he wants this too, rutting up against Tom’s cock. (The packer in his speedos is too soft. He <em>feels </em>hard. Edward should feel it, too. He debates offering his thigh, then decides against it. They’re on a beach; why did he think it was a good idea?) (Admittedly, this is all<em> very nice</em>.)</p><p>“Bite me?” he pleads. Feels Edward still, then exhale wetly, his breath ghosting over his skin. “Not in the blowjob way,” Tom clarifies. “I want to feel your teeth, please, just—”</p><p>“Fuck,” Edward grunts. Tom thrashes beneath him as Edward nips at his throat. This is not so different from teenagers snogging in public. They should be allowed to have this.</p><p>Edward licks at his neck, then sinks his teeth deep. The jolt of pleasure is unexpected: the intensity of it. Tom’s back arches off the towel and Edward has to push him down again, and all Tom wants is to grasp him with his thighs, but he can’t, so he’s keeping very, very still.</p><p>“I used to fantasize about this,” he whispers into Edward’s hair, who bites at him again, sharper, quicker. His hips roll with the movement, his dick grinding over Tom’s soft cock.</p><p>“Still into vampires?” Edward whispers against his bruised skin.</p><p>“Into you,” Tom says softly. Edward moans into his neck, long and low, <em>gnaws </em>at him and Tom can’t take it any longer, he grabs his shoulders and claws at his wide back, thrusts up, sharp, <em>take me now take me now take me now</em>— He can feel his eyes roll back, and that’s a sign he’s gone too far.</p><p>He won’t orgasm in front of the entire town.</p><p>“Fuck,” Edward says, humping him proper, putting his weight into it until Tom grabs his hips and stills him with regret.</p><p>“I’m about to make a Twilight reference,” he says, “and ruin the mood so we can cool down.”</p><p>Edward barks a laugh and nips at his neck. “Told you to behave.”</p><p>Tom watches him push himself up, sit back on his heels. He fills out his trunks nicely. Noticeably.</p><p>“Water?” Tom offers, rubs the back of his hand over his forehead. His head is spinning. He keeps spasming. It’s wonderful, but it’s not the time.</p><p>Edward is staring at his heaving chest, his legs thrown open. “Water,” he says. It sounds like <em>later</em>. He’s adorably flushed. His nipples are peaked. Tom didn’t even get to play with the piercings today, which is such a shame.</p><p>And not the train of thought he should follow.</p><p>“While Edward Cullen is bloodless and dead,” he says, “there’s venom in his veins which he can direct to his dick to get a hard-on and impregnate Bella.”</p><p>Edward frowns, looks alarmed. “You’re making that up.”</p><p>“That’s how I remember it. Memory might be foggy. Always liked Anne Rice better.”</p><p>A moment of silence is spared for the night where they watched Interview with the Vampire and Edward fell asleep on his shoulder in the first ten minutes.</p><p>“Give it to Meyer,” Edward says, “that just killed my boner.”</p><p>🩰</p><p>The water helps. It’s delightfully chilly. Tom paddles along in the flamingo floatie; Edward swims ahead with perfect strokes.</p><p>“You wanna swim out to the buoy?” he asks. Tom squints ahead. There’s a lot of sea. Water as far as the eyes can see, a great blue nothing.</p><p>“Nah,” he decides. “Can’t technically swim.”</p><p>“That lifeguard boyfriend of yours didn’t teach you?” Edward teases, turning onto his back. Of course he can swim on his back too. It always looked difficult. Not like Tom knows. Swimming pools and beaches tend to be awfully gendered. He never really had the chance to explore them.</p><p>“Wasn’t my boyfriend,” he says, gentle. “I don’t really do boyfriends; not long-term.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>Before Tom could say anything else, Edward dives underwater. Tom watches the bubbles he left in his wake. His heart aches. <em>I could try,</em> he thinks at the sunlight gleaming on the water. <em>For you, I—if we had the time— </em></p><p>He yelps when Edward suddenly emerges in a splash of water. He grabs the floatie, pulls Tom closer to him. His hair is plastered over his forehead and he’s slightly cross-eyed as he looks at Tom. His gaze is warmer than summer.</p><p>“Wanna learn?”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“How to swim.”</p><p>Tom blinks at him. Edward looks like an eager puppy. (Tom wants to keep him.)</p><p>“Isn’t it too late?”</p><p>“Never too late.”</p><p>Tom rubs his nose. “I paddle along fine on my own,” he notes.</p><p>“But <em>swimming</em>, Tom.” Edward smiles at him. Just a curl of his generous lips. “It’s wonderful.”</p><p>Tom hums as he mulls it over, runs his fingers through Edward’s wet locks, then gives in to the temptation and caresses those glorious muttonchops. They’re so soft. He dips down for a kiss, cupping Edward’s face. “Show me, then,” he whispers. Kisses him again. Edward’s lips part for him easily. He lets Tom explore his heat, taste him, trace his teeth. Tom likes the odd demanding kiss, the eat-you-up kind, but kissing Edward is a <em>meditation</em>; nothing exists but the harmony of it. He’s lulled by sensation as his breathing slows down but his heart rate picks up, beats <em>Edward, Edward, Edward</em>. He wants to sink into him. Drown in this kiss. (Edward would never let anything bad happen to him. Not ever again.)</p><p>“Let’s see,” Edward whispers, kisses the corner of his mouth, sucks at his lower lip. “Hold onto my shoulders, please.” He pulls away and Tom mourns for his kiss instantly; couldn’t they just kiss always? Give up air and kiss instead, get their sip of breath that way. </p><p>(He feels like he’s floating. It’s <em>not </em>the flamingo. Not the gentle rock of the waves. It’s something else, pulling him higher and higher until he’s weightless.)</p><p>“Like this?” he asks, because he needs to be told he’s doing well, and that’s exactly what Edward says,<em> you’re doing well</em>, and Tom melts against his slick back and breathes in the sea-scent of his hair and wants to be married.</p><p><em>About that thing I said,</em> he thinks. <em>When I told you I don’t do boyfriends— </em></p><p>“Let’s start with legwork.”</p><p>
  <em>Anything you say—oh my God, Edward—</em>
</p><p>“You’re an excellent dancer, so you should have no problem controlling your movements; the trick is to finish your down-kicks with straight legs for an accelerated thrust forward—”</p><p>Tom tries and it’s so easy he could laugh. It’s been easy all along. Edward pulls him ahead and he’s swimming after him effortlessly, holding onto his shoulder until he gets the hang of it.</p><p>“Show me,” Edward says, turning to face him. He holds Tom’s hands and looks at him with such warm expectation,<em> I know you’ll do so, so good</em>.</p><p>Tom links their fingers. Looks at Edward, breathless.</p><p>“I don’t want to get over you,” he says. Edward blinks. Tom tries to make it through the sentence without grabbing his cute little face and kissing him silly. “I think,” he says, “I’ve been trying to get over you for so long it turned into a habit, so I’m still doing it, but I don’t actually want to.”</p><p>He lets go of Edward, dives down to slip free of the floatie. There’s a moment of confusion where he’s not entirely certain what to do with his hands and feet and he just slaps at the water, but then he can feel Edward reaching to lift him, and oh, he could do a partnered sauté in his <em>sleep</em>. He uses Edward for leverage to propel himself up, breaks the surface and bends back, leg raised above ninety degrees, feet winged, hips square, it’s a movement he <em>understands</em>, and Edward is right there to support him. Tom glances down at him before they inevitably tip off balance and start to sink, and it’s okay, sinking is part of it.</p><p>He sinks laughing.</p><p>Edward lifts him again, and Tom clings on, holds onto his shoulders facing him, and discovers shortly that he can hook a knee over Edward’s shoulder pretty comfortably if he keeps his toes en pointe.</p><p>“Show me more,” he asks. “I wanna learn more from my—” <em>Date? Boyfriend? Partner? </em>“—Edward.”</p><p>Edward’s eyes round. “Call me that again.”</p><p>“My Edward,” Tom says, holding on tighter as Edward kisses him desperately. “Ned?” he whispers against his imploring lips. </p><p>“Only if it’s your Ned,” Edward says, voice quite broken.</p><p>“You’re definitely mine.”</p><p>🩰🏒🩰</p><p>Edward exhales as he wades out of the water, carrying Tom’s flamingo floatie. He feels his feet on the sand in a distant sort of way, as his toes have gone numb, but he’s exhilarated at the same time. He shakes his head to get the water out of his hair, hears Tom chuckle behind him. God, this <em>date</em>—he doesn’t deserve to have it, but it’s going so well, and he’d taught Tom to float on his own, and Tom’s eyes are the exact colour of the sea, just as Edward always remembered they were—</p><p>“Well, then,” Tom says from behind him.</p><p>Edward glances back, feels goosebumps breaking out on his skin.</p><p>Tom is staring at his arse, where the aubergine swimtrunks cling tightly to him. His eyes flick up, briefly, to confirm that Edward is watching him—and then drop right back where they were, even as his teeth bite down contemplatively on his lower lip.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>. Edward shrugs the floatie off his shoulder, carries it on his elbow instead so it dangles in front of him while he scans the beach ahead for the place they’d left their beach mat. His soaking wet trunks are clinging just as obviously in the front as in the back, and he wants Tom’s eyes there too, wants Tom to give him that wonderfully calculating look, wants to be measured up and evaluated and deemed worthy, wants—</p><p>He feels Tom’s breath on the back of his neck as Tom steps in close behind him.</p><p>“I’m starving,” Tom murmurs, cold fingers on Edward’s hips and thumbs dipping under the waistband, and oh, God, Edward wants to be fucked.</p><p>(And maybe Tom doesn’t want, doesn’t need a boyfriend—but maybe he wouldn’t be opposed to this either, to opening Edward up and taking him. They could go to Edward’s room if it’s too intimate for Tom’s, hell, Edward would brace himself in the sand for this too, for Tom behind him, they could come back later this evening when it’s dark, when there’s no one here but them and the sea, they could—)</p><p>“I know you hate ordering,” Tom continues, and, oh, his chest is rubbing up against Edward’s shoulders now as he rubs his palms on Edward’s sides, warming his hands on Edward’s body, and Edward would take Tom’s hands between his thighs, warm them there. “What can I get for you?”</p><p>“Um,” Edward manages. His mind is completely blank except for vivid recollections of last night and mixed-in images of Tom dancing, his leg over his head, his head pressed flat on his own thighs, his fingers dragging up Edward’s sides, and, oh, how Edward wants those hands on his arse, wants those fingers pressing his legs open, wants to see the cock that Tom will fuck him with, wants it in his mouth, wants to taste Tom again, <em>wants</em>. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Tom says, and he pats Edward’s side, presses a kiss to his cheek as he detaches himself from Edward’s body. “I’ll meet you back at the mat, then? There’s water in the bag, if you want something to drink.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Edward says. “Thanks.”</p><p>(The water in the bag is still half ice, and Edward downs one in a series of long gulps.)</p><p>(It does nothing to quench his thirst.)</p><p>🏒</p><p>“—and they were thinking they would have to operate on it if it didn’t improve, but I was in really intensive physiotherapy for ages, and so far—” At this, Tom leans forward, rubs his thigh with his elbow. Ice cream drips from the cone in his hand onto his knee, and he keeps talking. “—everything’s holding together just fine, so I’m hopeful that it’ll just...keep being okay, as long as I keep training, stay in close touch with my physiotherapist—she’s usually on site when I’m rehearsing, which is so helpful—”</p><p>Edward watches the white droplet move down Tom’s knee. The taste of his own ice cream is still sweet in the back of his throat, rich mint chocolate and the faint taste of the waffle cone. He swallows, again. Tries to refocus on what Tom is saying.</p><p>Can’t quite get there.</p><p>(The melted ice cream has nearly dripped from Tom’s leg onto the beach towel.)</p><p>“—so long when we’re rehearsing, sixteen hours days sometimes—although I’m sure your days are long too. You should tell me, Ned. What’s it like for you?”</p><p>Edward swallows. Leans forward and swipes the bit of ice cream from Tom’s knee, sucks it off his own finger. Vanilla.</p><p>He looks up, and meets Tom’s eye. Tom is smiling, and his eyes are gorgeous, and Edward’s heart just clenches tight in his chest.</p><p>“You had, uh. On your leg,” Edward says.</p><p>Tom glances down, quickly lifts his hand and licks at the side of his hand, laving up the remaining drops before they fall. "Mm, that was almost a huge mess." He beams at Edward, eyes bright. "Thank you for cleaning me up."</p><p>
  <em>Be my guest. </em>
</p><p>"You're welcome," Edward says thickly. He shifts on the mat, pulls his legs in closer to his chest. "Thank you for taking me to the beach."</p><p>God, he wants Tom's hands on him. Tom's body pressed up against his. Tom's hand down the back of his trucks, wants to press his face into Tom's speedos and just… stay there. Fuck the signing this evening, fuck having to use his words, why talk when he has always been better at communicating physically?</p><p>He glances down the beach, then back to Tom, catches the bear's little hard plastic eye on the way from where it sits on an extra towel, leaning back against Tom's beach bag and watching them.</p><p>
  <em>That's why, dumbass. Because you didn't use your words the first time. </em>
</p><p>"You should tell me," Tom says gently, "about your life, if you like. If you want to share."</p><p>"I, um," Edward says. Looks from the bear to Tom. From Tom to the sea.</p><p>"You don't have—"</p><p>Edward reaches out blindly, puts his hand on Tom's thigh. Keeps his eyes fixed in the distance, at the buoy bobbing in the water.</p><p>(Tom was right, it's a long way out.)</p><p>"It's literally just hockey," Edward admits. "I, uh. I train. I go to practice. Hang out with Sol and William sometimes. Tozer and Heather. They're the only other…everyone else has wives, or girlfriends. You know."</p><p>"It's ballet," Tom murmurs. "I suspect I'm less of an exception."</p><p>"... right," Edward says. Clears his throat. There's a seagull circling the buoy, and he watches it make laps around and around, but getting nowhere. "I, uh. Usually have the telly on at home, whatever sports are on. There's a, uh, women's hockey team I follow out of Iqaluit."</p><p>"Oh, that's in Nunavut," Tom says lightly. His hand is covering Edward's, and he squeezes it reassuringly. "I've been. It’s gorgeous."</p><p>Edward nods. Shifts his bum down the mat and leans back on his elbows. A mistake, because now all he can think about is putting his head in Tom's lap, which is <em>right there</em>. "I order food in most nights. I'm a shit cook. I go out with my team on the weekend if we're going out. Sometimes I just have a beer at home, watch a film or something." Decides to leave out any talk of his audio-visual setup—there wasn't a telly in Tom's bedroom at all, and he doesn't want to look like he's bragging when really it's just that he has nothing to do with his money, and no ability to say no to salespeople.</p><p>He glances down at Tom's feet, idly moving through a series of foot exercises which look second-nature to him. There's a shadowed bruise on Tom's ankle, and his right big toe is bandaged, the plaster just coming loose at the edge from the water.</p><p>“I’m very boring,” Edward says, finally. “Sorry.” He leans over, presses his lips against Tom’s bare thigh, and then just kind of—gives in, and keeps his head there. Waits, tense, trying to decipher from the muscle in Tom’s thigh whether he’s okay with Edward’s head there or is just waiting for him to move away again. He’s pretty sure he conditioned his muttonchops in the shower this morning, so he shouldn’t be too prickly, but Tom’s skin is so soft, and maybe it’s uncomfortable for him, maybe he usually—</p><p>Tom sighs, and gently drags his fingers through Edward’s hair, his nails scraping pleasantly on Edward’s scalp. “Relax,” he says softly, “you’ll hurt your neck tensing like that.” His hand moves to Edward’s neck, gently presses down until Edward is lying with his head completely in Tom’s lap, watching the sea. “There, that’s better.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Edward says.</p><p>Tom keeps petting Edward’s hair, the motion steady and hypnotic. “You know,” he says. “I used to think about this. All those times you fell asleep on my shoulder when we were teenagers. I spent so much time trying to figure out how I could shift so you’d be in my lap instead.”</p><p>“Wish you’d managed it,” Edward murmurs. “Wanted it then. Want it now.”</p><p>“Well, you have it,” Tom says kindly. “And your hair is lovely for this, it’s quite long at the back.” He tugs on the strands in the back, and Edward shudders, shifts in closer to Tom.</p><p>It takes a few minutes of him watching the buoy bob out in the distance before he realizes that something’s changed. It takes a few more minutes before he realizes that his breathing’s slowed. He’s not sleepy, he’s just…</p><p>(relaxed)</p><p>...happy.</p><p>The only other time he ever feels like this is on his skates, but even that is temporary, because he always has to take them off, because the entire world isn’t made of ice and arenas, because he still has to exist outside of games—but, oh, god, Tom exists outside of the arena. (Tom <em>only</em> exists outside of the arena.)</p><p>The sudden thought of going back to a life without Tom seems unfathomable.</p><p>“So, um,” Edward says. “About what you said earlier. I, um. I don’t date well.”</p><p>Tom doesn’t so much as tense underneath him, though his hand stills in Edward’s hair. “Oh?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Edward says, staring out at the sea and trying his best not to overthink it. “So, uh. That whole not doing boyfriends thing? That’s fine with me. I fuck that stuff up all the time. I don’t connect very well with anybody.”</p><p>Tom’s hand resumes stroking through Edward’s hair. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “I thought you and I connected just fine last night.”</p><p>Edward groans. “<em>Tom</em>.”</p><p>“What?” Tom says innocently.</p><p>Edward rolls on his back, pushes his sunglasses up on his forehead and squints at Tom. “You know what,” he says. And then, “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”</p><p>Tom smiles down at him, rubs Edward’s earlobe between his fingers. “Flatterer.” He tilts his head, slides his hand down to the back of Edward’s neck, massages his nape like Edward is a cat getting picked up by the scruff.</p><p>Edward’s eyes shut. “Mmm, Tom. That’s so nice.”</p><p>“I think I could bounce coins off your muscles back here,” Tom says softly. He taps at Edward’s neck. “How don’t you have headaches?”</p><p>“Oh, I do,” Edward says, relaxing into Tom’s touch. “Muscles have something to do with that?”</p><p>“...oh my God. Yes.”</p><p>“Huh.”</p><p>Tom scoffs, and Edward opens his eyes slightly, squints up at him.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Yeah, I, it’s just.” Edward’s throat feels oddly thick. “You take such good care of me?” He swallows, tries again. “You always take such good care of me, Tom.”</p><p>That little half-smile dances across Tom’s face. “Well,” he says. “We do go way back. And I am rather fond of you.”</p><p>The right response is on the tip of his tongue. <em>I’m pretty fond of you too.</em> Or maybe <em>I like you back</em>. Or maybe he just turns his head, presses a kiss to Tom’s belly, right below his bellybutton. Maybe he says <em>I want you to keep taking care of me </em>or <em>do you think you could possibly </em>and, oh, Tom is shifting, leaning down and kissing him, deep and intense, and it absolutely shoves everything else out of Edward’s head except for the one thing he wants more than anything, and the words just fall out of his mouth the moment Tom pulls back for air.</p><p>“Please top me,” Edward says breathlessly, and then abruptly feels like an idiot. “I, uh, if you want, you don’t, I mean, last night was really fucking amazing also, I, uh…okay, your eyes went huge, um. Tom?”</p><p>“<em>Well</em>,” Tom says, voice pitched low. “Edward Little.” He gives the back of Edward’s neck a squeeze. “Finally caught me staring at your arse, did you?”</p><p>“Oh god,” Edward says softly. “No, I, um, yes, I. You were?”</p><p>Tom brings his hand up into Edward’s hair, tugs on it gently. “I was, yeah.”</p><p>“And...d’ya figure I look fuckable to you?”</p><p>Tom whistles, low and long, tightens his grip on Edward’s hair, and scratches Edward’s scalp. “I’d fuck you right here on the sand if I’d packed the appropriate gear.”</p><p>Edward glances over at the clearly excessive beach bag. “No lube in there?”</p><p>“I heard you can mash up seaweed,” Tom deadpans.</p><p>“No, thank you,” Edward says. “I’ll wait.” He glances down at his watch, winces. “I have that signing tonight anyways.”</p><p>“You should wander in my direction after you’re done,” Tom says. “I have a dick with your name on it.”</p><p>Edward chuckles, flicks his sunglasses down over his eyes. Thinks about it for a second, and then pushes his sunglasses back up for a moment. “Wait, really?”</p><p>Tom grins mysteriously at him, and leans in for another kiss.</p><p>🏒</p><p>
  <em>edwardlittle87: so, about tonight</em>
</p><p>
  <em>edwardlittle87: small disclaimer</em>
</p><p>
  <em>thomasjopson: Yes?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>edwardlittle87: I’ve got, like, a fifty percent success ratio on this.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>thomasjopson: Let me guess, you have a hard time relaxing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>edwardlittle87: I have a hard time</em>
</p><p>
  <em>edwardlittle87: okay, yes, that.</em>
</p><p><em>thomasjopson: it’s okay </em>🥰</p><p>
  <em>edwardlittle87: i appreciate your faith, I just want to make sure you’re not disappointed. Can dick you down if this doesn’t work out.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>thomasjopson: Ned, my Ned. We’ll make it work.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>edwardlittle87: ok :)</em>
</p><p><em>thomasjopson: have fun at your signing </em>💓</p><p>“You ready, there, Little?”</p><p>Edward glances up from his phone, and then looks at the clock. “Oh, shit, yeah. Sorry.” He shoves his phone in his pocket, runs his hand through his hair, stops when he realizes Tozer is still looking at him. “What?”</p><p>“You’re smiling,” Tozer says suspiciously.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“It’s a <em>signing</em>.”</p><p>“...yeah?”</p><p>“You’re being weirder than usual.”</p><p>“I’ll…” <em>tell Tom that</em> “...keep that in mind.” His phone buzzes in his back pocket, and Edward reaches for it automatically.</p><p>Tozer gives him another look, and then shakes his head. “Alright, let’s go.”</p><p>“Following right behind you,” Edward says absently, flicking his phone open.</p><p><em>thomasjopson: i got you </em>😘🍆🍑</p><p>Edward’s smile morphs into a grin.</p><p>🏒🩰🏒</p><p>Edward is grinning, but it’s one of the nervous smiles. Tom kisses it off his mouth, makes sure it melts into something more relaxed. He doesn’t stop until he can feel a gasp against his lips; draws back an inch, and looks at Edward, taking him in. The ends of his hair are wet. He smells clean. Thank God he hasn’t shaved; Tom enjoys the burn of his stubble and his muttonchops as he nuzzles his face, breathes in his scent. He stops by his ear to nibble it.</p><p>“Want you naked,” he says.</p><p>Candlelight illuminates the bed, and the stringlights over the headboard cast a warm glow to match. Edward will look so good with the shadows playing over his heaving chest. Tom did his best to set the mood. There’s some understated  Prokofiev droning on in the background, if anything so dramatic can be described as such. He put the flowers he got from Edward on the nightstand. Made Eddie face the wall. Chose a lube and condoms to save Edward from making too many decisions.</p><p>It may be overkill.</p><p>But this is a date, and he’s going to give it his everything, all his potential, even though there’s all the baggage, and technical concerns, and emotions and the fact that Edward will go home <em>tomorrow—</em></p><p>Edward starts tugging off his trackpants.</p><p>“Slowly; let me savour it,” Tom asks, makes him still his hand by covering it in his own. Squeezes it, then chases the zipper of his jacket. Looks into Edward’s eyes as he slides it down. There’s no tank top underneath now. Tom’s knuckles brush over his naked chest. “Your heart is beating so fast,” he says.</p><p>“I’m excited,” Edward says. Swallows when the jacket falls completely open.</p><p>“You’ll have me,” Tom promises. Eases it off his shoulders. “All of me.” He kisses into the crook of his neck. Tastes nothing but clean skin. Soon, he’ll taste sweat.</p><p>“I was wondering if I should shave my armpits,” Edward says, almost an apology. Tom caresses his arms, reaches under them.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“You have yours shaved.”</p><p>“Because I dance. It gets distracting on stage.”</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” Edward breathes. Tom strokes down his bared forearms, touches the hair just with the tip of his fingers, the ghost of a caress. Edward shivers.</p><p>“I like you as you are,” Tom says. “Exactly as you are. I’ll give you everything. What do you want?”</p><p>Edward makes an incoherent sound. Tom laces their fingers, leans closer.  Presses a kiss to Edward’s lips. It works like a charm: his tense shoulders drop.</p><p>“I want your cock,” he rasps.</p><p>Tom gives him another peck. “You can have it,” he says, then clarifies, “Have one. Technically, you could have two. Not tonight, though.”</p><p>“Jesus <em>Christ</em>, Tom,” Edward scoffs, grinning again. Tom kisses his forehead, then leans over to rummage through the bedside table. (It’s perfectly organised. It’s more for Edward’s benefit, to let him know what’s happening.) “Have you ever—? With two.”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>“Lucky boy.”</p><p>“Lucky you.” Tom gets a wooden box, and hands it over to Edward. Leans over his shoulder to watch. Edward blinks at the box, confused.</p><p>“You’ll let me choose?”</p><p>“It’s going up your bum, not mine.”</p><p>Edward bites his lips and shoots a quick glance at Tom before thumbing the lock open. It contains a fine, ever-growing collection of Tom’s prosthetic cocks, organised by size in two neat rows, all in tip-top condition. (The scent of toy-cleaner is a bit overwhelming for a minute, but Tom likes it.)</p><p>“Twelve pricks stand before me,” Edward says solemnly,  “but only one can be in my arse.”</p><p>Tom scoffs at the deadpan delivery. Has to cover his mouth to hide his grin, trying to school his face, but then just lets himself beam at Edward. Draws closer, throwing a leg over his thigh.</p><p>(He should’ve taken off Edward’s trackpants, but things would’ve went from zero to ten. Edward is half-hard already. Tom wants to take his time with it. Take his time with Edward.)</p><p>“Which one do you like best?”</p><p>“Couldn’t possibly choose a favourite,” Edward says. “Wouldn’t want to offend.”</p><p>“They’re dicks,” Tom counters softly. “They don’t have feelings.”</p><p>“Mine does,” Edward mumbles darkly. He gravitates towards the smaller ones, then changes his mind.</p><p>“That’s eight inches.”</p><p>“That’s doable. Isn’t that doable?” Edward measures it against his arm. He holds it as if it was some relic.</p><p>“Funny you should choose that,” Tom muses.</p><p>“I can choose something else.”</p><p>“No, it’s your choice. That was my first.”</p><p>Edward stares at it. Silicone. Medium-firm. Unconvincing colour. No balls.</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“I got it—” Tom clears his throat. “I got it after you told me about the chessmaster.”</p><p>“What chessmaster?”</p><p>“The one who took your virginity.”</p><p>Edward scowls at him. “He was the president of the amateur chess club? We were both sixteen.”</p><p>Tom holds up his hand. “I remember every detail,” he says. “I remember the <em>quality of air</em> in the room when you told me.”</p><p>“Did the temperature drop?”</p><p>“Went up, more like.”  Tom gets the cock from him and looks at it fondly. “It’s massive.”</p><p>“It’s not that big,” Edward says defensively. It’s so like him to get fond of the underdog in the box. That one was affordable when Tom was a student. There’s one in there that’s thirty times the price.</p><p>“It was my second sleepover,” Tom says, “still unofficial, because I just didn’t want to go back to my dorm, and you didn’t say I should, so I stayed, and it was three a.m. and we had beer.”</p><p>“God, remember getting shitfaced from a <em>beer</em>?” Edward says wistfully.</p><p>“I asked if you were a virgin and when you said no I asked for the story.”</p><p>“I coloured in the details. Wanted to impress you.”</p><p>Tom blinks. “You said it lasted twenty minutes.”</p><p>“I thought that was impressive,” Edward mutters.</p><p>Tom kisses him quickly. God, that beard-burn. He could never have predicted that. Edward used to be fairly clean-shaven. Bits of toilet paper here and there. He always nicked himself. He still taught Thomas how to shave. Guided the razor across his peach-smooth skin, standing behind him. That was the first time Tom felt Edward get hard. Looked into the mirror and knew it was for him, not some silly little chess club president.</p><p>“You told me that you both kept borrowing that Abominable Snowman Choose Your Own Adventure book and you ended up chatting about it and you fucked him in the library and I was dying of jealousy. I wanted to be him. I wanted to be him so badly. George Hodgson.”</p><p>“Good old Georgie. He’s in a choir or something.”</p><p>“I’m sure he has the voice of an angel,” Tom says graciously. Edward pokes him in the ribs.</p><p>“How did you get the cock?”</p><p>“Oh? Went into town that weekend with all my saved up money, in loose change. Wanted a dick bigger than his.”</p><p>“Definitely achieved that, yeah.”</p><p>“Wanted to fuck you with it.”  </p><p>Edward frowns. “Wait, wait. You have it mixed up. That sleepover was in sixth form.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“Already—?”</p><p>“Ned,” Tom says gently. “I asked you if you were a virgin because I thought that if you said yes it wouldn’t be weird to offer a BJ.”</p><p>Edward covers his face. Groans into his palms, deep and long, then falls back into the bed with a resolute <em>thud</em>.</p><p>Tom sets the box aside, and starts putting the cock into his harness.</p><p>“I’m an idiot,” Edward babbles. “I’m so daft. Oh, Tom, I’m a himbo. Am I a himbo? Is that what the kids say? Oh God. Of course.”</p><p>“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” Tom deadpans. Edward groans louder. Tom gives an experimental stroke to his cock, adjusts a loose strap over his hips, then climbs atop Edward. Edward is collapsed on the pillows, peering up at him with an adorable frown.</p><p>“We could’ve—”</p><p>“I could’ve given you a very sloppy blowjob which would’ve embarrassed us both,” Tom says as he soothes Edward’s hair. Lets his fingers trail down his face, his neck. “Can I give you something better?”</p><p>“Get naked first,” Edward says. “Let me see.”</p><p>“There he is,” Tom breathes, sits back on his heels. He sheds the dressing gown with a little bit of coyness, enjoying the caress of silk on his heated skin, Edward’s gaze tracing the fall of the garment. How openly he looks at his dick once it’s revealed. How <em>hungry </em>he is for it. He reaches to grab at it, and Tom allows a caress before he bends down to lick at Edward’s chest.</p><p>The glint of those nipple piercings is far too tempting.</p><p>Edward cries out, tugs at Tom’s cock as he swirls his tongue around the golden ring, flicks it gently, then sucks on it. He fondles Edward’s pec, pulls at the other piercing. “Been thinking about this since the beach,” he tells him. “You look so good in gold things.”</p><p>Edward’s watch presses against his belly as he pushes himself closer, bites at his nipple. His hair falls forward; he lets it tickle Edward’s chest as he leaves wet bruises, makes him a whimpering mess.</p><p>“Tom, Tom, Tom,” Edward chants, a litany in his praise. Tom kisses his way down his twitching belly, finally tugs the trackpants off, and Edward’s cock rises up, thick and glorious. It’s a shame to ignore it; but Tom must keep his eyes on the prize. A quick lick is all he allows himself before surging deeper, pushing Edward’s strong thighs open to reveal the pucker of his arse.</p><p>“Oh, you did shave here!” he exclaims delightedly.</p><p>Edward grumbles something that sounds like “Tried to be polite.”</p><p>“Much charmed,” Tom praises, taps his thumb over it. “Douched too, I reckon?”</p><p>“Popped over the pharmacist’s for an enema kit,” Edward confesses. Tom feels him twitch. Rubs a soothing circle over the ring of muscle and looks up to search his eyes.</p><p>“May I taste?”</p><p>“May you what?”</p><p>“How do you feel about rimming, Ned?”</p><p>Edward mutters something incomprehensible. His body answers: Tom could easily insert a digit. He refrains until Edward asks for it.</p><p>“Yes,” he says. “Yes to that, I feel—good about it, but you don’t have to, I mean, you are under <em>no </em>obligation—”</p><p>“Please, it’s my pleasure.” With that, Tom bows his head. Edward cries out at the first touch of his tongue, a teasing lap. He also clenches up. Tom taps the tip of his finger at his hole, imploring, then licks a slow circle around it. He can taste soap, faintly, but it’s not distracting. Edward thrashes, tenses up further.</p><p>“Sorry,” he pants.</p><p>“Is it okay?”</p><p>“More than okay. You look obscene.”</p><p>Tom blinks at him innocently. <em>Licks. </em></p><p>“Fuck,” Edward cries, bolts upright. Tom chases after him, grips him by the thighs and tastes him again, relentless, lapping him up like he’s addicted, and there might be truth to that, because when Edward said he had a fifty percent success rate bottoming because he has trouble relaxing Tom wasn’t imagining <em>this</em>, how sensitive he is; what a <em>gift</em>.</p><p>“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Edward chants steadily. Tom looks at him from under drooping lashes, licks at him with broad, flat strokes of his tongue as he works the tip of his pinkie inside. Edward curses again, pulls his legs up higher. “Fucking hell, I can’t, you’re so proper, who the fuck would’ve guessed, Thomas Jopson eating arse—”</p><p>“With a side of come,” Tom adds, making him bark a shocked laugh. “What? You couldn’t tell I swallow?”</p><p>“Of course you do,” Edward mutters, sinks into the pillows. Tom has had shy men bottoming for him before. Ones who were maybe even more responsive than Edward. They had one thing in common: they got too overwhelmed to look.</p><p>Edward is staring.</p><p>“Your eyes,” he says.</p><p>Tom hums, mouth otherwise occupied. He has his whole pinkie inside; God, Edward is <em>tight</em>. He keeps clenching around Tom, but eases when Tom curls his finger, sucks at the rim. He’ll train him for his dick. He’ll have the pleasure to do it.</p><p>“Did you know your eyes are green in candlelight?” Edward babbles breathlessly as Tom gets the lube to attempt a second finger. “It’s true, in candlelight, they’re always green. Blue in the open. Grey indoors. Every colour in between, wherever you go. Fucking gorgeous.”</p><p>“Always envied yours,” Tom notes as he slicks him up. Edward barely reacts, too busy looking appalled.</p><p>“Brown? Everybody has brown eyes.”</p><p>“Not with lashes like yours; not so bright; not so warm.” He licks to test the taste, makes a face. He had hoped melon would be more subtle, but he doesn’t usually use this brand, because he doesn’t usually eat out Edward Little.</p><p>“Is it bad?”</p><p>“Plastic and sugar.”</p><p>“Don’t subject yourself to—<em>bloody hell</em>, Tom!”</p><p>“Topically tropical though,” Tom says between licks, as if that was the reason why he’s eagerly spreading Edward’s arse, because it’s <em>topical</em>. God, he’s going to make him feel so nice, get him all loosened up. Edward is making the prettiest noises, and Tom loves that he <em>chats</em>, that Mr. Monosyllables gets like this when Tom makes him flustered. He chants a list of profanities as Tom nudges his tongue in between scissoring fingers, but there’s a question there, <em>may I touch your hair</em>, and Tom responds with a happy moan. He expects Edward to grab a fistful and guide him deeper; Edward just sweeps an errant lock back.</p><p>“There,” he says, breathless, then curses again.</p><p>There are times and places to feel so touched you tear up. Rimming your date is not it, yet Tom can feel his eyes well up, because Edward knows how much it annoys Tom that the only hairstyle that suits him is also his greatest enemy, always falling into disarray. He needs to pull back and take a calming breath as he slides in another finger; he’s going to fuck Edward so good, and he’s doing it soon. He taps at his prostate. Edward kicks him.</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>“Successfully located,” Tom concludes. Clears his throat. “You’re doing so good. Start thinking about your preferred pose.”</p><p>“Hands and knees,” Edward replies immediately.</p><p>“I’ll do whatever pleases you best,” Tom says. “Remember, I’m flexible.”</p><p>“And I’m a kicker, so hands and knees it is.”</p><p>“Smart.”</p><p>Edward licks his lips, nods vaguely. He’s flushed all over, cock painfully erect, arching up with a slight bend. Tom wants another sample, but knows that if he initiates it might finish poor Edward, who’s been working so hard to be able to take him; he deserves to come on Tom’s cock, like he requested. Tom doubles his effort with his fingers, hooking them and dragging the tips slowly, so every touch is a long stroke, and he watches Edward thrashing and sees his hard cock sway and knows he’s done good.</p><p>He eases out and there’s a very wet sound which makes Edward cringe.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Tom tells him. “Just means you’re ready for me. Are you ready?”</p><p>“Yes, please, very ready.” Edward flops to his stomach inelegantly, then pushes himself up to his knees. The muscles of his back shift. Tom swallows while wiping his hand on a kleenex, then gulps when Edward reaches back to hold himself open.</p><p>“Gorgeous,” he whispers, shuffles closer. Puts his hand on the small of Edward’s back, feels his warmth, his impatient trembles. “Condom?”</p><p>“Pass.” Edward nudges him with his arse. Tom lubes his cock and lines up.</p><p>“Breathe for me,” he says, revelling in the moment. Edward looks great like this, so ready to get stuffed full. Tom guides his cock up and down his crack, then eases the tip in and starts the vibrator. Edward grabs the headboard.</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” he says. “You are big, huh.”</p><p>“I’m going very slow,” Tom says. He circles the head to demonstrate his point.</p><p>“Or you could just slam it in,” Edward counters. “Do it fast, like a bandaid.”</p><p>“Ned, love, I don’t think that’s how—”</p><p>Edward grins at him over his shoulder.</p><p>“Oh, yeah?” Tom says, leaning over him and grasping a hip. “Getting cheeky, are we? Taking the piss?”</p><p>He gives him a sharp little stab. Edward gasps, then mumbles, “Love when you chide me.”</p><p>“Mm, I hope you’re thoroughly admonished, then.” He slides ever deeper, holding Edward firmly. God, to have such a beautiful man under him. To have Edward here.</p><p>“Never been scolded like this,” Edward says. “I have learnt the error of my ways.”</p><p>“My wayward little Little,” Tom whispers affectionately, rubs Edward’s cock. “Not appropriately named.”</p><p>Edward groans. Shifts his position, bracing himself on the mattress to be able to push back against Tom. He’s sliding in inch by inch; can’t feel any of it, but reads Edward’s pleasure from the way his breath hitches, the gooseflesh over his skin, how his cock twitches.</p><p>“I’m the first to ever make that joke, I’m sure,” Tom notes.</p><p>“Oh, is this just a joke to you?” Edward fucks his prick into Tom’s fist. Tom hums with it, enjoying the slide of skin on skin, the hardness, the heat. He tightens his fingers around the shaft, twists it this way and that, as if testing it; Edward curses softly, eases up enough that Tom can thrust in deeper.</p><p>“Nobody knows that Edward Little has a big cock,” Tom says as he pulls at it playfully.</p><p>“Not—<em>ah</em>—nobody—”</p><p>“Sorry, George Hodgson is well aware.”</p><p>“Sod off.”</p><p>Tom smiles triumphantly. “Spit.”</p><p>Edward twists to reach Tom’s offered hand, yelps when the angle inside of him shifts.</p><p>“Easy, easy.” Tom spreads the slick saliva over Edward’s cock in a calming caress, pinches the underside. “Is the handjob too much?”</p><p>“Don’t stop,” Edward begs. “It helps, I’m not focusing too much on my arse.”</p><p>“I’m just halfway in.”</p><p>“...halfway?”</p><p>“You don’t have to take all of it,” Tom says. Edward makes a skeptical sound, which turns into a moan as Tom pulls out almost all the way. “I think I can fuck you like this well enough.” He rocks back in, slow and steady, dragging his cock out and in, circling his hips. Edward forgets to breathe. He’s stock-still, his cock dripping pre-come over Tom’s nimble fingers. Tom teases him with a caress, whispers, “Move with me.”</p><p>Edward sighs, follows the gentle nudge of Tom’s hand on his hip as he guides him into a rhythm. The candlelight paints shadows over his pale skin, making every muscle more visible as Edward moves forward and back, at first a tad mechanical; but Tom knows how to make this into a dance, how to build a pace together.</p><p>“Fucking hell,” Edward whispers; it sounds better than any praise Tom’s shows have ever received. He smiles to himself, goes a little harder, because Edward can take it, he’s being so good, so lovely. Tom leans forward to plant a kiss between his shoulder blades. Miscalculates the angle; Edward drops down to his belly with a laugh. He turns his neck to peer at Tom, and he’s close enough to kiss now, and isn’t that wonderful? Tom licks at the corner of his mouth, then at his face, tasting his summer freckles as he thrusts in. Edward melts against him, he’s so warm and solid, gorgeous guy like him and Tom can have him, he can have him—</p><p>“Close your legs,” he says, pulls his trapped arm out and hooks it under Edward’s shoulder so they’re pressed closely together, back to chest and all the way down their legs, and he starts moving again, with short twitches hard enough to make Edward’s cock rub against the mattress.</p><p>Judging by the noises Edward makes it’s much appreciated; intoxicated, Tom abandons any concept of elegance, buries his face into Edward’s nape and humps him proper, with some wild animal movements he didn’t think himself capable of; primal and vicious, and he revels in it. This goes beyond the Rite of Spring, he’s an untamed thing guided by lust alone, to claim Edward as his own, leave his scent all over him, his marks on his body, a lingering ache within.</p><p>“I’m gonna come all over your bed,” Edward says, gasping for air, and Tom just dives in deeper.</p><p>“You’re going to lick it up, then,” he says. Edward tenses, cries out; he’s beautiful, and he’s Tom’s, Tom’s very own Ned,  the one he’ll spoil rotten, he’ll take such good care of him, and he’ll make sure he’s well-behaved, if he can, he'll do that, he wants to do that, wants to keep him. He slides out and grabs Edward’s hair, gentle, kneels up and guides him to where Edward left wet marks on the cover, pets his head while Edward sucks his own come from the fabric. “There, there. Clean up after yourself. Are you finished?”</p><p>“Finished,” Edward pants, still trembling all over, hair a mess. Tom sits back, patient, expectant. Adrenaline is rushing in his veins. He feels high on it. Like on stage, when something just possesses him, makes him dance on the edge of sublime, face towards the lights.</p><p>They lock gazes.</p><p>Edward climbs between his legs, eases off the straps. Tom smiles, head tilted to the side. The first caress of Edward’s obedient tongue is divine; the second even better; he <em>remembers</em>, because Tom taught him well, and he cleans him out like it was his job.</p><p>🩰</p><p>Tom contemplates his life under the shower. Edward is washing his back, because he’s a good guy like that. Tom just stands there.</p><p>“They say that ballet dancers are crazy,” he says.</p><p>“Crazy hot,” Edward mutters. “At least you are.” He rubs foam over Tom’s bum. It feels so nice. His hand is big enough to cup it almost completely, and he’s not afraid to slip in, and Tom wonders if he should ask him to finger his arse a little, but he’s exhausted. Maybe in the morning. That’s the way he usually postpones sex, when he’s so tired from a show he can’t be bothered to wank.</p><p>
  <em>(Six days of dance every week. From dawn to dusk. You can’t ask him to be part of that. You don’t even have a place in London, where would he come visit you? On your brother’s couch?) </em>
</p><p><em>(I’m home now,) </em>he thinks back at himself.<em> (He’s here today.) </em></p><p>“Stay,” he mutters sleepily. Edward’s hand stills.</p><p>“Come again?”</p><p>Tom leans against him. Edward hugs him closer instinctively, helps him stay upright.</p><p>“Stay the night?”</p><p>“If you want.”</p><p>It feels like he never wanted anything else. He melts against him completely, puts his head to his shoulder to look at him. Edward looks <em>thoroughly </em>fucked. His hair and muttonchops drip with water. Tom feels like they’re back by the sea, like he’s swimming, and he just has to go where the waves take him.</p><p>“I want you to stay.”</p><p>🌺🌺🌺</p><p>Francis is in trouble. Not by the looks of it: he’s been turning over the pillows with no apparent hurry, and he’s yet to lose his temper.</p><p>“It couldn’t have wandered off,” he remarks, for about the third time.</p><p>“Who’s to say,” James warrants an answer. He’s in bed, petting Neptune absentmindedly. He’s wearing a sheer babydoll; ivory. (James insists it’s ivory, and not white, and that the two are not the same.) Francis is trying to focus on his mission and not the way the delicate lace lays over James’ wide chest. Refuses to stare at his long legs. Or his satin knickers. ( Silk? Satin. Silk…? They have a bow on them.)</p><p>“I'm fairly certain the remote control didn’t wander off, love,” Francis says, lifting the same pillow he already checked. The laptop is set up, HDMI cable in place: now he should just turn on the telly, and thus justify the purchase of said telly, which should be intelligent enough to handle HBO Go on its own, but Francis hasn’t figured out the settings yet.</p><p>“Consider this, remote controls are smart now,” James says. His voice promises...three episodes? Two? Before he’ll start peeling off Francis’ pyjamas, which he should just stop wearing at this point, but he loves the part when James casually slides his hand inside his trousers and makes a delighted, smug face of surprise, as if he didn’t expect to find Francis hard; as if he could ever be unaffected by James’ closeness.</p><p>Francis runs his hand through his hair, annoyed at the pesky device delaying his plans. “I’ll just ask Jopson,” he grumbles.</p><p>“You’ll ask him if remote controls can wander off?”</p><p>“I’ll ask him where it is, he knows that kind of stuff.”</p><p>Half an episode of some period show they’ll inevitably settle on so James can criticise the clothes and he can criticise the editing and both of them can shit on principal photography, then Francis will turn his attention to the main event, which happens to be his husband. He married well: James is still the most fascinating thing in this world after all these years and all the wonders they’ve seen.</p><p>He could definitely take HBO out of the equation, but the ritual of it is thrilling. Pretending like they’re just settling in for a quiet night with something involving weddings, horses, petticoats and royals, not say, the thorough fucking of James’ chest, who’s wearing a bralette.</p><p>“Don’t bother Tom, he has a gentleman caller.”</p><p>“Does he now?” Francis says vaguely.</p><p>James taps his nose. “Ribbon on knob.”</p><p>Francis hums, peers under the mattress. “On a Saturday night? He never has them over on Saturday.”</p><p>He can’t fucking believe the remote control is, actually, under the bloody mattress.</p><p>“Must be someone special,” James muses as Francis settles next to him, and leans into his embrace.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><span class="u">A content warning:</span><br/>- <b>Semi-public intimacy</b>: making out and a bit of dry humping on a beach in the relative cover of cliffs<br/>- Tell us if we missed something? </p><p>@Ktula continues to write Edward's POV, while @Autumn did Tom's POV &amp; the Fitzier</p><p>We offer you a moodboard for your <a href="https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1294649274739970048">retweeting</a> / <a href="https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/626527891917783040/latent-heat-by-heyktula">reblogging</a> consideration!</p><p>Aaaaand we’re on twitter! Autumn is <a href="https://twitter.com/forautumniam">@forautumniam</a> and Ktula is <a href="https://twitter.com/heyktula">@heyktula</a>. </p><p>Chapter 3 (the final! chapter!) updates on Saturday! See you then!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please refer to the end notes for <b>content warnings</b></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Edward wakes up slowly, from a dream that doesn’t dissolve so much as gently lingers, the smell of Tom’s shampoo so apparent that he almost believes—</p><p>—wait.</p><p>Edward opens his eyes, lifts his head off the pillow. He’s in Tom’s room. There’s sunlight gently filtering through the curtains; birds chirping in the garden, audible even through the closed window; and Tom’s arm is slung across his lower back, his breathing soft and steady.</p><p>It’s his last day in Ilfracombe, and he’s waking up in Tom’s bed.</p><p>(He’s going to have to leave.)</p><p>Edward tentatively stretches his legs out, listening to Tom breathe, making sure that he won’t wake him. He slowly rolls from his stomach onto his side, doing his best not to dislodge Tom’s arm. God, the  last time he woke up like this, they’d been kids. Tom still looks like a goddamn angel: his hair still falls half over his eyes, and there’s a little wrinkle between his eyebrows where he’s frowning slightly as he sleeps. He’s got the covers pulled up tight to his chin, held there with his fist just like he always used to, and Edward wants to kiss his adorable pointy nose.</p><p>(He doesn’t want to go.)</p><p>He shifts just a little bit closer, breathes in the smell of Tom’s hair. He’s trying to identify the exact scent—fruit, of some sort, maybe?—when he drifts back to sleep again.</p><p>🏒</p><p>He blinks himself awake in an empty bed, disoriented but for that same scent. It’s fainter now, but it’s still on all the bedding, because this is where Tom always sleeps, and of course his things smell of him. Tom isn’t here right now, but the smell of his shampoo is strongest on his pillow, so Edward tugs the pillow close, wraps his arms around it and nuzzles his face into the fabric as the rest of his brain slowly comes online.</p><p>He can hear Tom in the bathroom. Must be brushing his teeth, because there’s the faint buzz of an electric toothbrush, punctuated by the tap running. Edward rolls onto his back, still clutching Tom’s pillow, peers at the light filtering in through the drapes. It’s definitely morning now, and the light is bright enough he should probably get up. He’s no more prepared to leave now than he was a few hours ago, though. He’s not ready for the weekend to be over. He wants to <em>linger</em>.</p><p>(He can’t stay.)</p><p>Edward allows himself a few moments to imagine what could happen if he did—slow, languid morning cuddles, a barefoot stroll downstairs, coffee with Tom’s family, walking the massive dog that was in Tom’s Instagram photos. If they were like this all the time, he would bring Tom with him to the rink for the wrap-up the same way his teammates bring their girlfriends and their wives, and they would love Tom, they would absolutely love Tom, he’s so elegant and perfect and his smile would be just as devastating for them as it is for Edward. He’d say goodbye to Sol, stay a couple extra days in Ilfracombe just to soak up as much of Tom’s presence as he can. To spend his time taking Tom out for food after his rehearsals, or to Blanky &amp; Daughters in the evenings. Walking back here with him, both of them satiated on good food, maybe a bit tipsy on whatever Tom wants to drink. Edward wants to come upstairs with Tom at the end of the day, at the end of <em>every</em> day, wants to curl around Tom’s body to find the places where he fits and rest there, breathing together in unison. He wants to learn Tom’s body, know it well enough that his hands know where to go to massage the knots out of Tom’s legs, make sure he’s ready for training and rehearsal. He wants that sense he used to have, where he always knew where Tom was in a room, hyper-attuned to his laugh and the sound of his voice and the way his eyes widen when he’s listening to something he can’t quite believe. Time and distance and Edward’s fuck-ups have eroded that connection, but the scraps of it are still shimmering, and they could be rebuilt if Edward just stayed, if he just had more <em>time</em>.</p><p>(He has to go back to London.)</p><p>It’s just...he can’t let this go. He can’t let any of this go. He knows how this is supposed to play out, how it’ll go if he lets it, if he just relaxes back into all the bullshit that’s comprised every single year of his life since he let Tom break his leg, and decided it was easier to just coast than it was to do something that seemed hard. He’ll say goodbye to Tom now, and he’ll regret the goodbye before he’s even out of the back garden, but he won’t turn back. He’ll do the wrap-up with Tozer, and afterwards, they’ll toss their gear into Edward’s car, get onto the M5.</p><p>Tozer will pick the music on the way back, because Edward doesn’t care, and the music won’t matter anyway, because it’ll be completely drowned out by Tozer’s half of his phonecall to Heather, and the rising spiral of doubts that will run rampant in Edward’s head the entire five hours back. He’ll be cranky and tense by the time they get back to London, he’ll snipe at Tozer for being ambivalent about where he wants to get dropped off, even though they both know it’ll be wherever Heather is, because that’s what Tozer wants even though he’ll dance around it for half the drive back. Then Edward will drive to his own flat, and he’ll park his Mercedes exactly inside the lines of his spot, and he’ll stare at the gear in the boot for a full five minutes before picking it up, and hauling it over to the lift, and when he steps into his flat, it’ll be exactly like it was when he left it.</p><p>Empty. Sterile. Pristine.</p><p>(Lonely.)</p><p>He’ll lie on the couch with the telly on for the rest of the evening, and have no idea what was on, and it never mattered before, and he didn’t think it was ever going to matter, but that was before this, that was before—</p><p>“Good morning,” Tom says cheerfully.</p><p>Edward startles, looks over guiltily, suddenly conscious that he still has Tom’s pillow hugged in against his chest. Tom is standing at the side of the bed, and he’s fucking gorgeous—bright-eyed and freshly showered, his hair styled back out of his face, chest bare. God, the lean muscles on his arms—Edward traces them from Tom’s shoulders down to his hands, where he’s holding—oh. A toothbrush in one hand, and a cup of mouthwash in the other, held out to Edward as an offering.</p><p>Edward pushes himself onto his elbow, tries to subtly move Tom’s pillow back where it should be as he reaches for the mouthwash. “Ta.” He tosses it back—mint—swishes it around, spits it back into the cup and has a moment to be blindingly, terribly self-conscious about holding a cup of his own spit before his eyes focus. Now that he’s not distracted by Tom’s arms, he’s staring right at Tom’s bellybutton.</p><p>To be more specific—at Tom’s subtle abs. At the waistband of his teal jockstrap, which is—Edward swallows—it’s fine. It’s just that Tom is standing there with a slight smile on his face, and nothing on his body except for a teal jockstrap. His package is exactly eye-level, and it’s probably polite to look away, but Edward’s not awake yet, and by the time he finally clues in and forces his eyes back up, Tom is watching him with an arch expression on his face.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says primly. Leans forward and plucks the cup from Edward’s hand, turns to walk back to the bathroom.</p><p>The straps of his jock hug his hips, curve under his buttocks.</p><p>His arse is entirely bare, and Edward watches the play of the muscles as Tom walks back to the bathroom, thinks about groping him, biting, kissing. Dragging his tongue over Tom’s arse.</p><p>Edward’s mouth is dry. He tries to swallow. Nothing happens.</p><p>Tom saunters back out of the bathroom empty-handed. Meets Edward’s eyes, and then deliberately looks down the length of Edward’s body. “Well,” he says, kneeling on the end of the bed. “Penny for your thoughts.”</p><p>“None,” Edward says. “Absolutely none.”</p><p>“Really,” Tom says, leaning forward onto all fours, and gracefully crawling toward Edward. “None at all?”</p><p>Edward shakes his head. Swallows. Looks down when Tom does, and—oh, <em>fucking </em>hell, they were trying to have a nice conversation here, and—he turns his head, reaches for Tom’s pillow.</p><p>Tom puts his hand on Edward’s wrist. He’s straddling Edward’s hips now, and his forelock hasn’t fallen down yet, but it’s definitely considering it. “Don’t,” he says.</p><p>“Fuck,” Edward says, his face hot. “It’s—sorry, I—you’re hot as fuck, you know that, right?”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“No, seriously,” Edward says. “You’re just—it’s—and you’re smart and you’re witty and I really like spending time with you, and I’m sorry that my goddamn dick is making an ass out of itself because I would also really like to cuddle with you, and like. Hear about your day? I don’t want you to think that I’m...just here for this. Are you, uh—here, I can just roll over…”</p><p>“Did you know you cuddle in your sleep?” Tom asks softly, sitting back on Edward’s thighs.</p><p>Edward inhales to apologize, but something in Tom’s eyes stops him, and he exhales slowly through his nose, the way his therapist taught him, and listens.</p><p>“Always have,” Tom continues, stroking the underside of Edward’s wrist with his thumb. “That very first sleepover—god, I was hiding in your dorm, and we’d been up so late talking you told me to just stay, because you’d never be able to smuggle me back to mine without causing a ruckus. You were so careful about it, too—you gave me my own blanket, you were right over on the far side of the bed, and I was aching for how much I wanted to close the gap between us, but you’d already joked that you’d never shared a bed before, and didn’t know how to do it properly.”</p><p>“God,” Edward says. “You said something about it being an improvement on sharing a bed with your brother.”</p><p>“He was a blanket thief.” Tom smiles fondly, his eyes crinkling.</p><p>God, Edward can’t get enough of that <em>smile</em>, the weight of Tom’s body on his, can’t get enough of the sheer pleasure of Tom being this close to him, of being within grasp, every single point between them where their bodies touch. “And I said—oh, I tried to make some joke about how maybe I was a blanket thief too, and I just didn’t know about it.” Edward shifts in bed. Doesn’t fail to notice how Tom’s eyes drop, just briefly, contemplating the outline of Edward’s cock tenting the sheet. It does nothing to temper his arousal, but there’s a pleasant feeling prickling at the back of his neck from being watched, so he doesn’t shift, or move away.</p><p>“You didn’t steal my blanket,” Tom says gently. “But I woke up with your nose buried against the back of my neck, and you breathing into my hair. You had your arm slung around my waist.”</p><p>“Oh god,” Edward says, scratching at one of his sideburns, and snuggling back into the pillows behind him. “That’s worse than stealing blankets.”</p><p>“Mm. It wasn’t for me.” He takes his other hand, and gently sets it on Edward’s hip.</p><p>He’s not touching Edward’s cock. But he’s close.</p><p>Edward swallows. “What was it like for you?”</p><p>“Warm,” Tom says, his eyes falling shut, his knees squeezing gently against Edward’s thighs. “Comfortable. You used to—make these little movements in your sleep. You’d turn toward me, or tug me closer to you. Made me feel wanted.” Tom’s eyes open again, and he rubs his thumb on Edward’s hip through the sheet. “But I never got to see this.”</p><p>“My cock,” Edward says, and neither of them remark on how gruff his voice comes out.</p><p>“Your cock,” Tom repeats, his voice low and sultry. “I suspected you kept waking up with an erection, you were always so quick to get out of bed in the morning, and nobody holds a towel like that in front of themselves unless they’ve got something they’re trying to hide. I don’t—I don’t want you to cover up today. Not when this is the first sleepover I’ve been allowed to look.”</p><p>“Oh,” Edward says softly. He turns his hand over, holds Tom’s in his own. “First sleepover as grown men.”</p><p>Tom smiles. Skates the fingers of his other hand just a bit closer, petting the sheet gently, tugging it taut over Edward’s hardon, and drinking in what he sees.</p><p>“I couldn’t help it,” Edward admits, feeling a little bit like he’s flying. Like anything could happen—like it’s just as likely for Tom to suck him off as look at him, like they could just sit here like this, for hours, or descend into wanton sex at a moment’s notice. All of it would be fine, any of it would be fine, he just—he just wants <em>this</em>. “Having you in my arms. It’s a fucking wonder I didn’t have a wet dream while I was holding you, I used to have nightmares about that.” He grimaces, remembering. “Well, wet dreams about it as well. You never laughed at me in my dreams.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t have laughed at you in reality, either.” Tom drags his two fingers along the sheet, right next to the hard length of Edward’s cock. “I wanted it to be for me. I hoped it was for me. I used to lie awake in bed in the early hours of the morning, dreaming that we were together, that your cock was hard for me, that I could curl back up against you, with your cock pressed up against my bum, that you would wake, and kiss me.”</p><p>Edward blinks at him, imagining what it would be like to have that now, to have Tom curled up against him, his bum slowly rocking back against Edward, grinding along the length of him. “I. Really?” God, it was so long ago, and Edward had thought that he ached alone, and he hadn’t, he <em>hadn’t</em>—</p><p>“Of course,” Tom says mildly. His eyes are soft and warm, and he’s looking at Edward with fondness. “How couldn’t I? You should have seen yourself then.” He glances down, and his smile widens. “Though I quite prefer the way you look now, you’ve really grown into yourself.”</p><p>“First sleepover where I’ve grown into myself,” Edward jokes, because he still can’t quite process the fact that Tom had wanted him so much <em>then</em>, the fact that Tom still wants him <em>now</em>, the fact that they have this, they can have this.</p><p>“Well,” Tom teases, “I’m not sure you could quite grow into this, but you’re making your best effort.” He shifts on the bed, moves up Edward’s thighs just a bit, until his cock is pressing lightly against the base of Edward’s.</p><p>“I’m trying,” Edward says honestly. Reaches out with his other hand, hooks his fingers into the elastic of Tom’s jockstrap. His skin feels soft underneath. “I want to do my best for you, always.”</p><p>“Well,” Tom says, his voice easy and relaxed. “You’re certainly doing your best <em>now</em>.” He rocks, gently, looks down at Edward’s cock again, contemplating it.</p><p>Edward curls his hips, winces a bit when a dull ache makes itself known, and then blushes, hot. “Sorry,” he mutters.</p><p>Tom raises his eyebrow. “First sleepover where your bum aches from how well I fucked you?”</p><p>“Yes,” Edward says. “That.”</p><p>Tom puts his hands on either side of Edward’s chest, leans forward and nuzzles the side of Edward’s neck. “It’s good?”</p><p>Edward shudders, tips his head back to expose his neck further, clenches his arse—and, oh, yes, he still feels Tom there, and it is <em>so</em> good. “Yes. Yes, it is, you—you fucked me so well, Tom, I’ll feel you…” <em>the entire drive back to London</em>.</p><p>And, oh.</p><p>Oh, <em>fuck</em>.</p><p>“...things okay?” Tom asks softly. His fingers on Edward’s chest, just barely touching his nipple rings, and he’s stopped kissing Edward’s neck, is just hovering there, breathing, his breath cool on the places where his tongue just was.</p><p>“Yeah,” Edward says softly. “Yeah, they are.” He rests his head against Tom’s, takes a couple of deep breaths. “Glad I broke my dry spell on that with you.”</p><p>“I had the patience to do it right,” Tom agrees.</p><p>“You did. You always do.”</p><p>“But?”</p><p>Edward turns his head, kisses Tom—gentle, deep, warm, exactly as he deserves. Pulls back, and just <em>looks</em> at Tom’s face, just because he can, because if Tom can look at Edward’s cock, surely Edward can map every feature on Tom’s face just so that he can remember it forever, just so he can redraw the mental map he’s always kept, update it with the changes that have happened since Edward last saw him, update it with the fond expression that Tom is wearing now, the fond expression he’s wearing as he looks at Edward, the expression that Edward wants to remember forever. His face is more angular now than it was; his jaw and chin more defined.</p><p>Tom tilts his head, just slightly, his eyes wide.</p><p>(He’s waiting for an answer.)</p><p>“It’s my last day here,” Edward admits, finally. “I, uh. I gotta check out this morning. Rink this afternoon. Driving back to London this evening.” He scowls down at the sheets. “Sorry, I’m—shouldn’t have brought that up. Ruin a perfectly nice morning.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Tom says softly, squeezing his knees comfortingly against Edward’s thighs again. “It’s not ruined.” He leans forward and presses a kiss against Edward’s cheek, and then another one against Edward’s lips. He tastes like toothpaste. His eyelashes are gorgeous. “We’ll make do with what we have.”</p><p>Edward kisses him back. Soft, gentle, mapping out the shape of Tom’s mouth with his tongue. He closes his eyes, marks the progression of his breathing. (Breathes Tom in.) “I miss you already,” he admits. “Isn’t that stupid?”</p><p>“Oh,” Tom says softly. He tucks Edward’s head into his shoulder, holds Edward tight against his body. Plays with the back of Edward’s hair, weaving his fingers between the strands, tugging at them periodically.</p><p>“I didn’t wanna be stupid about this,” Edward murmurs. “You’re not gonna respect me if I’m stupid about this. Like I was last time. I want...well. I’m going to be honest.”</p><p>“Please,” Tom says.</p><p>“The thought of going back to London and never seeing you again fucks me up,” Edward admits. He closes his eyes, tries to center himself before realizing he’ll never be able to this way, and then opens them, stares into Tom’s big blue eyes.</p><p>For a moment, Tom doesn’t say anything. Then he shifts his hand to the back of Edward’s neck, squeezes him gently. “Never?” He presses his knees gently against Edward’s hips, his package just barely brushing against Edward’s cock. “Do you think it can be different this time?”</p><p>He <em>wants</em> it to be different. Wants it so badly he can taste it. “I’ll make it different,” Edward vows, voice low.</p><p>“Mmm,” Tom says. “I’m <em>very</em> busy in London.” His breath catches momentarily, and he stills where he’s rocking on Edward’s hips, and then he exhales and relaxes all at once. Brings his hand down to Edward’s hips, tugs gently at the sheet, pulling it further down Edward’s belly.</p><p>And further, exposing Edward’s navel.</p><p>And then further, exposing the tip of Edward’s cock.</p><p>“Fuck,” Edward mutters.</p><p>“I just want to look,” Tom says, his voice gone breathy. “I know you have things to do this morning.”</p><p>“Wanna do you again,” Edward says, grinding his arse back into the bed, revelling in the ache and the way Tom watches him, the cool air on the bedroom on the exposed head of his cock. “I know the timing’s not great, I know.” He brings his hands to Tom’s hips, squeezes him in a matter that’s supposed to be comforting, and then slides his hands down so that he’s cradling Tom’s mostly-naked arse in his palms. “Fuck, Tom.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Tom murmurs, his voice lilting as he gently rolls his hips. “Not enough fuck for you this weekend?”</p><p>“Not enough <em>you</em>,” Edward replies. He squeezes Tom’s arse again, revelling in the curl of arousal, in the way his cock remembers what it felt like to be inside him. “God, how do I miss you when you’re right here?”</p><p>Tom stops moving for a moment, and Edward almost wonders if he’s done something wrong—and then Tom is clutching him tightly, pulling him close, whispering Edward’s name, his special name, the name that’s just for Tom, <em>Ned</em>.</p><p>(Edward has done nothing wrong at all, and isn’t that a first.)</p><p>“Do you, um,” Tom murmurs. “Would you...let me come with you? You said you’re not leaving until the evening—can we have the day? Pretend that...well. Can we have the day together?”</p><p>And, oh, it’s everything that Edward wants and didn’t think that he could ask for. “Please. Yes. Let’s. Come with me, Tom. Stay with me all day. I’d love that.”</p><p>Then Tom’s mouth is back on his, open and gentle, and Edward loses himself in the kiss, emerges moments later feeling breathless and dizzy with it.</p><p>(They get the day. Edward has a whole day to prove that it’s going to be different this time. That it <em>has</em> to be different this time.)</p><p>“Let me take you out for breakfast,” Edward offers. “Can I do that?”</p><p>Tom leans back, considers him for a moment. “Yes,” he says, finally. “Yes, you may.”</p><p>🏒🩰🏒</p><p>Tom has never been more heartsick while dipping biscuits into tea. If Edward were anybody else, he would pretend himself far too refined for desecrating a good cup of Assam, but Edward has never judged him for anything. He’s gazing at Tom dreamily, nursing a cup that looks comically small in his large hands. Every time he smiles, Tom still has the instinct to snap a picture, because he knows it’s a rare event that must be commemorated. Edward’s smile is Halley’s comet, and Tom is just lucky enough to provoke a meteor shower out of him every time they’re together. He doesn’t have to lose this, not necessarily, not completely, but there are logistics in maintaining a relationship.</p><p>He has a bad history with them.</p><p>They both live in London, which would be a promising start under other circumstances, but distance is not the only thing that can seperate people. If they were in London, he wouldn’t be sitting in a tea shop soaking up the early sun, skin pleasantly chafed from Edward fucking his thighs after murmured conversations in bed. Tom would already be stretching, because he can’t normally retire his body on Sundays and give it over to debauchery. He would be knackered from the workweek, with no energy to shag or even go out for a date. London is PG in a thermos which he drinks on the go until it grows cold. He might spend most of his time there, but Ilfracombe is home, because Ilfracombe is loose leaf tea prepared properly, dainty sips and fine porcelain and the smell of the sea, and Edward, bless him, Edward will be Ilfracombe too, not London, a beautiful memory of summer, and he will carry the warmth of it through winter, but what choice does he have? Keep running into Edward when he’s too tired to put a sentence together? He’d leave him with unreturned calls, unread messages, the constant cold shoulder, <em>I’m busy</em>.</p><p>It’s ballet. It takes all you have.</p><p>He’s worked too hard for this.</p><p>“What are you thinking of?” Edward asks, soft, head tilted adorably. He’s such an eager puppy, so utterly focused on Tom sometimes he’s worried he’ll forget to breathe while he’s looking at him.</p><p>“Madame Jane Franklin,” Jopson says, averting his eyes to stare into his tea. Sad little lumps of biscuits swim in it.</p><p>“She’s that ballet teacher you had,” Edward says, snapping his fingers as he tries to place her. “The first, yeah?”</p><p>Tom can always count on him to remember.</p><p>“From kindergarten through primary. I begged Ma to take me, it was an elective, so it was free when I started, I only had to bring my own gear, and we weren’t doing pointe then, so it was just—God, this sparkly pink tutu which I adored. I still think tutus are cute.”</p><p>“Tutus are objectively cute,” Edward agrees, raising his cup for a little toast.</p><p>Tom swallows a charmed smile. “Madame Franklin taught the junior boy’s class before mine, and I always got there early and just wandered around antsy to begin, and I saw them through the glass and it looked so fun. And I remember being angry, and jealous, and I didn’t even know why I felt that way, because I <em>loved </em>ballet, and I loved my own class, and I figured I just wanted—more, so I asked the Madame if I could come to the boy’s class too, pretty please, and she told me they’d tease me if I did but I didn’t care. And I started dancing with them and thought, <em>oh</em>. This is me. This is the way I move. I don’t even know when it got to the point that I didn’t want to go to the girl’s class anymore. I have this memory of just...crying while I put on my shiny slippers, sobbing through barre practice.”</p><p>Edward offers his hand as if Tom still needed comforting. He doesn’t, but takes it anyway, linking their fingers as he finishes his tea. It’s rare that he gets to speak. He was always silent, obedient. A good kid. Restrained. Even now, living with James, God bless him—he just stopped waiting for his turn to speak. There’s comfort in silence. Maybe that’s part of why he likes ballet, the ability to talk without words. Whatever it is: Edward always listens to what he says; to his movements. Tom squeezes his hand tighter.</p><p>“Eventually I figured I’d just ask if I could drop the girl’s class and focus on the boy’s. We had better choreo there, I argued. More jumps. I remember that she got very serious...it was before SATS and we’d have to start paying for the classes. She told me that she won’t ever send a child away who wants to dance, and as you can imagine the boy’s group was dwindling anyway, I suppose she needed the numbers, but she told me, and I will never forget it, ‘if you ever want to dance professionally, you will regret this.’” He swallows thickly. “She meant competitions and such, of course, I didn’t think it’d be my career either, it seemed impossible. It’s <em>sports</em>. It’s as binary as it gets. I didn’t think my preference for the boy’s class had anything to do with gender. I just liked it better. So that’s what I chose. There were moments where I think I should’ve realised what was going on, but I always explained it away. I cut my hair short because it felt more practical than fussing with a bun. As I got older, I started binding so the boys wouldn’t be staring. But eventually I realised who I was. And I realised, too, that I was in serious trouble. Ballet was my life, but there was no space for me in ballet. I’d have to carve it out.”</p><p>“And now look at you,” Edward whispers, proud. Tom allows himself a moment to bask in it. He’s been invisible for too long not to enjoy the spotlight, the confirmation that he did well. That the fight ended. There was a battle, and he won. But every battle comes with a cost.</p><p>“The first trans principal dancer at the Royal Ballet,” he says, staring at their joined hands. “And it’s easier for me than if I’d been nonbinary, or a trans woman. You can’t imagine the obstacles they face, all the bloody gatekeeping. It was easier for me, but I cannot count the times I left an audition room humiliated and furious, got denied scholarships, felt pressured to get surgery when I wasn’t yet ready, and God, don’t get me started on the locker rooms I wanted to set on fire. I’d like to think that I paved the way for my community, that I have not just a career but a legacy. That’s why I, ah. I feel responsible not to fail. Not once, not ever, not for a second.”</p><p>“You won’t.”</p><p>“I won’t, because I made it a priority. Because I made sacrifice after sacrifice. I’m taking my life back, I have this, I have a home, a family, but I don’t know if…I don’t know if there’s space left for anything else.”</p><p>“For me,” Edward says softly. Tom nods, adjusts his hair. His vision swims as he’s staring at their hands. He doesn’t want to let go. Not quite so soon; not when the future is so shapeless. Edward nudges him with his toes, a silly little gesture of comfort, and trust Edward to start playing footsie with him to console him, to be the one doing the consoling in the first place, when that’s usually Tom’s job. He’s used to picking up the slack after people, he’s good at fixing things, himself included. He never felt safe enough to fall apart. Just with Edward. Edward always loved him, even when he was less than perfect. But it’s been too long since he could count on the luxury of his support. Tom built a future that included no partner. He’s better at a solo act. “I won’t push you to make space for me.”</p><p>“But I want to,” Tom blurts. “Ned, I want you so much it scares me.” He looks up with wet eyes. He never thought he’d let somebody see him quite so vulnerable. Edward cups his face to wipe at his tears with a thumb, and it already makes Tom feel stronger, to be so cherished, because only someone strong and good would be loved so much, would be loved by Edward Little.</p><p>🩰</p><p>Edward has until eleven to leave the hotel room. Tom goes with him, because where else would he go? Edward keeps apologising that it’s not the ‘ideal date,’ but Tom doesn’t care. He wants to be caught up in the practicalities of Edward’s life. Daydreams about going to the post office together, unpacking grocery bags, trying to assemble an IKEA shelf. He gets a taste of it as he watches Edward load his suitcase with a handful of shirts, and has to intervene.</p><p>“I appreciate that you folded them,” he says from the chair, “but they could be four times smaller.”</p><p>“How?” Edward asks, kneeling on the floor and looking utterly lost. Tom can’t resist joining him, even though he tries to stay clear of B&amp;B carpets, no matter how clean they look (very) or how fancy the room is (rather fancy, there are orchids and everything). Edward is worth making an exception.</p><p>“Look,” he says, taking his place next to him, and it’s silly, but the brush of his thigh against Edward’s feels almost overwhelming, and he feels some kind of complicated way about his tailored pastel blue trousers in contrast with the dark jeans Edward is wearing. “You fold the sides across the centre vertically, one after the other, mind the sleeves, then fold it in half widthwise twice… how many hockey shirts do you own?”</p><p>Edward looks down at himself. “Quite a few.”</p><p>“They look good on you,” Tom says, gaze lingering. “Anything would look good, I suppose.”</p><p>“Haven’t seen me in a tutu yet.”</p><p>Tom chuckles. “Redo the next shirt.” They reach for it at the same time. Their hands touch, and Tom flushes like someone who didn’t fuck Edward through the mattress the night prior, who didn’t hook up with him pretty much in <em>greeting</em>, but it’s not lost on him that Edward is dishy; he’s always been cute, but the muttonchops, the small wrinkles, the recent development of sculpted arms, those are next level.</p><p>He bites on his lips as he pulls back his hand with a calculated coyness, caresses up Edward’s forearm, who hums low in his throat. They lock gazes: the morning light hits Edward’s eyes just right, making them a burning amber; his hair curls over his heavy brows, tousled by the sea breeze; he is devastatingly handsome and Tom’s heart aches as he kisses him, because what kind of idiot lets a man like Edward just go? He should fold himself into his suitcase (he’s flexible enough, for one) and let him carry him home, allow himself to be kept like some kind of pet, live for Edward’s comfort alone, but that’s not something he could do. Edward doesn’t deserve anything less than a househusband who folds his hockey shirts and washes his back in the shower every evening, and who never stops kissing him, but Tom must pull away.</p><p>Edward looks at him from under his gorgeous lashes, slightly cross-eyed, which is very unfair, because it’s the same expression he had when he was on Tom’s cock, and Tom wants to see it again, especially if another sound dicking is thrown into the mix, top, bottom, roll around, or even through Skype...just something so it’s not the last time Tom feels like he can have him.</p><p>“If you had the space,” Edward asks, voice dropped low, “where would you put me?”</p><p>Tom blinks at his kiss-swollen lips, then turns away, busies himself with yet another shirt that smells amazing, smells of Edward. “In my pocket, carry you around.”</p><p>Edward caresses the small of his back. Tom shivers and melts. “If you decided to date me in London, how would that look?”</p><p>Tom doesn’t want to think about it. He wants to sit on the floor with the balcony window open, bask in the summer and talk sports and life, heartbreaks and travels, anything but what awaits, yet he owes it to Edward, owes it to everything they shared here. So he’s honest when he says, “It’d look miserable. I said I don’t do dating. Fact is, I <em>can’t</em>. I work from eight pm to midnight on show weeks, and even if it’s only rehearsals, I have yoga and physio and rehabilitation training, so I’m drained anyways. I tried to put people in this equation before and they all came to resent me.” He folds the shirt with more determination than necessary. Edward brushes his knuckles up his spine.</p><p>“We could manage our mutual expectations.”</p><p>“No, I—Ned, I don’t even have my own place, have I told you that? I live with my brother in London, because it’s so pointless to have a place, even a room, so I come home, take a shower, crash on his couch. I live out of a suitcase.” He folds a pair of socks to make a point.</p><p>“I have a place big enough for the two of us,” Edward suggests gently, taking the next shirt from Tom’s hands when he reaches for it. “For, uh. About six of us, actually. It’s...big.”</p><p>“And I wouldn’t be there,” Tom says, breaking his own heart by refusing the offer, even if it’s mostly theoretical, even if Edward just means <em>come visit me sometime</em>, because—hell, what’s in it for Edward? He could live in Buckingham Palace, it wouldn’t change a thing, Tom’s absence would just fill the place. “I’m fully booked. I have some...lulls, some stretches of hours between class and rehearsals, but it’s so unpredictable, I find out on the spot, so I usually just read or mess around on my phone, and sometimes it’s half an hour and sometimes it’s four, but I never <em>know</em>, I cannot plan around it, I just stay in the building because it’s pointless to leave.”</p><p>“I could pop in,” Edward suggests. “Whenever our schedules overlap. Keep you company.”</p><p>Tom opens his mouth to say what a hassle that would be for Edward, but Edward tactfully places a finger over his lips. Tom should not find being <em>hushed </em>so hot. It must be the calm Edward radiates towards him. He’s a hurricane of a man, but when he’s with Tom, they’re in the eye of the storm. Tom understands all too well why Edward would want to fight for this. He wants to fight, too. But it shouldn’t be a fight. A hustle. Relationships are work, yes, but he cannot work a second more, not even for such a prize. He trained himself to know when not to push beyond his limits. How to stay on his feet.</p><p>“I think a thing you overlook,” Edward says, slow, “is that I’m an athlete too. More flexible schedule, but um. I feel like I get it. Usually I’m the busy one.”</p><p>“Do your boyfriends ever mind it?” Tom asks, which is perhaps a tad cruel, especially since Edward nods, of course he does. Tom has never met a man who didn’t get fed up with cancelled date after cancelled date. “See? I wouldn’t put you through it.”</p><p>“<em>I</em> wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t want to limit you. I wouldn’t stand between you and your career. Not ever. I could be your cheerleader. Well. Your Gritty, perhaps.”</p><p>“What’s in it for you?”</p><p>“You,” Edward says, so earnest Tom feels like crying again. He needs a cigarette. He needs ten. He really shouldn’t be smoking in the first place. He passes a hand through his hair, then stands. Edward looks up at him, devoted utterly, kneeling at his feet. “You might feel like you can only give me scraps, but I’m a starved man.”</p><p>Tom exhales slowly, shakes his head. It’s tempting to be selfish, isn’t it? But he’s not that kind of man, never was. Edward Little deserves a four course meal, and if Tom cannot serve it—</p><p>“That’s not good enough,” he says, trying to sound determined, to remind Edward of his value. He lifts Edward’s chin, strokes his cheek. “I suppose we could meet up for the odd shag, text every so often, but it’d just make us remember all that’s missing. All we had here.” Edward makes a sound close to a whimper. Tom presses on, even though his throat is getting closed off. “We would meet less and less and text less and less, because that’s life. And I couldn’t stand losing you again, watch you fade away, I just cannot do it.”</p><p>“The full monty or nothing.”</p><p>“Exactly. You know me, I’m a perfectionist.” He drops his hand. “This was perfect.”</p><p>Edward hangs his head, remains on his knees. <em>There</em>, Tom thinks. <em>You broke him</em>. Better to get over it now, better to shatter hopes before they turn into expectations. He should be strong, for the both of them, but it pains him to see Edward so defeated. He’s thinking of the next thing to say, but his mind is empty, he’s just chanting<em> I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,</em> but he cannot say that, cannot admit—</p><p>He doesn’t anticipate Edward swaying forward, hugging his knees. He buries his head into Tom’s crotch, and it’s not even sexual, he just wants to be soothed. The thing is that Tom chose this particular packer and put on the jockstrap because he wanted to make this last day the best. That was the plan, and he’s messing it up. And he hates a mess.</p><p>He strokes Edward’s hair. Who cares what it <em>means</em>. He just wants to caress him and trust that he won’t take it as a promise, because Tom has nothing to give, just—one more touch, one more kiss, before goodbye.</p><p>“Do you fancy a smoke?” Tom asks, just a bit too chipper, trying just a bit too hard. “I could use some air.”</p><p>Edward nods, wordless. Tom helps him stand and Edward lingers, pressing into Tom’s personal space, hiding his face in his neck. He tugs at the polo shirt tucked into Tom’s trousers, slips his palm under it so he can feel skin. Tom inches towards the balcony and Edward follows, clinging to him. The best, no, the worst part of it is that it doesn’t feel odd or overwhelming, because Tom a hundred percent thinks that he should have an Edward Little grasping at him twenty-four-seven, and in an ideal world, that would be feasible.</p><p>They make it to the chairs in a strange little dance, and when Tom sits Edward just follows, straddling his lap. God, he’s heavy; if it was one of Francis’ plastic chairs which he’s had since the eighties it would’ve collapsed, but it’s one of those fancy chairs that look like a nest, so they can burrow in it and feel safe. Edward has worked Tom’s shirt free and is idly stroking his treasure trail while Tom pats down his pockets for his cigarettes, comes up short. He glances at the glass table and finds a vape pen there. Chuckles.</p><p>“It’s Sol’s,” Edward mutters defensively; Tom is relieved to hear him speak.</p><p>“Will he mind?” he asks, turning it around in his hand playfully. He glances ahead to take in the view. He’s glad to know that Edward had such a nice view while he was here: green trees and steep cliffs and the sea, the shocking blue of it, that he was comfortable here, and happy, and Tom had a part in it.</p><p>Edward says nothing, but shows Tom how to use the vape, and the taste of it is—quite something, vaguely bubblegummy, but it’s just to occupy his mouth before he keeps talking and says hurtful things, things that make Edward silent. Tom strokes his back (God have mercy, the muscles there will be missed), guides him to lie more comfortably, head pressed to Tom’s chest and legs thrown over the armrest. It’s like cuddling Neptune, who’s huge but not big enough to contain all the love he can give, who keeps insisting on being a lapdog. The difference is that Tom doesn’t care much for dogs beside the occasional pat and the responsibility of keeping them alive and healthy, but Edward,  he loves so much it’s just unfair.</p><p>“Tell me about your future,” he says, knowing he’ll have to rephrase so it makes sense, but this is what he actually means, <em>tell me where you’ll be, where I’ll find you</em>. (He shouldn’t seek him out. It’s like smoking. He won’t just take one drag. He wouldn’t be able to stop until all that’s left is ashes.)  “What are your plans?”</p><p>“I don’t really have plans,” Edward mutters into Tom’s neck. His muttonchops tickle.</p><p>“Retirement?” Tom prompts, hoping it’s not a sensitive topic. They’ve had enough sensitive topics for the day. The century. He rubs Edward’s back while smoking the vape and pretends that’s all there is, the two of them, right at this moment, and the sea stretching into infinity.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s impending, I guess,” Edward says. Nestles ever closer. “I’d enjoy working with kids. So if I can keep doing this, that’d be great. Summer camps and shit.”</p><p>“You like kids?” Tom asks vaguely. James would give him a <em>look </em>for the clumsy conversation, he sounds like an English as a Second Language student, but he’s very careful not to go back to things that—shouldn’t be discussed, the imminent future. He wants to hear that Edward will be okay, that he’ll carry on with his life whatever Tom does, that he didn’t fuck him up.</p><p>“Kids are awesome,” Edward says with genuine enthusiasm. “Most of them. Some are little jerks. But a lot depends on how you engage them, and if you make an ass of yourself before they do, then they’re down to goof.”</p><p>Tom can’t help himself but ask, “Do you want kids?” and yeah, there. That’s how you make a conversation bloody loaded. (James would get up with a sigh and leave the room to grab some wine.) Edward gives it some thought, which horrifically implies that he hasn’t thought of it before. (Tom asks himself the question every so often, and the answer is always a muffled scream. So if Edward says yes, and he will, because he loves kids, that’ll just be another example why they’re doomed, why this won’t ever work.)</p><p>“I mean,” Edward mumbles, “I love horses too, but I’m not adopting one anytime soon.”</p><p>Tom blinks. “But you would.”</p><p>“I might? I don’t know. Depends how my life goes. I might find myself in a horse situation or a kid situation.” There’s a comfortable pause, as if Edward thinks this settles it. Tom’s mind is racing. He cannot imagine not<em> planning for</em> such major decisions. He has the alarming mental image of Edward swinging by a children’s home and coming out on horseback with three to five kids strapped to his chest. Edward peers up at him, one eye closed against the sun. “Did I tell you I’m an uncle?”</p><p>“I think you were in the process of becoming an uncle when we last talked.”</p><p>“I’m an uncle of ten now,” Edward brags. “Eleventh on the way.”</p><p>“That’s an entire hockey team,” Tom notes, hoping he has the number right. Judging by Edward’s sappy smile, he does. For all the games he attended when they were friends and the hockey compilations he rage binged whenever he wanted to torture himself with the memory of Edward Little, he knows next to nothing of the game. He wants to change that. Even if Edward and him never talk again. (He knows they will talk again, and that he’ll hate himself whenever he slides into his DMs, he knows that he’ll do it, he knows that he shouldn’t, but he wants to say <em>good game</em> and mean it.)</p><p>“I have plans,” Edward says with a slightly manic spark in his eyes. “I’ve seen the ultrasound, Meredith is shaped like a goalie.”</p><p>“Condolences to whoever gives birth.”</p><p>“What about you?”</p><p>“No kids.”</p><p>“Your plans.”</p><p>Tom pretends to consider the answer, as if he did not have plans from A to Z. He’s figured out his whole life. Being prepared used to keep him safe. That accident by the river wasn’t just about losing Edward—he broke his damn leg, any dancer’s worst nightmare, and he was left alone to ask <em>what now, what now,</em> and his mother’s chirpy optimism wasn’t helping, the constant reassurance of <em>you can do anything</em>, and he didn’t want his brother’s overwhelming worry, he wanted his best friend, he wanted Edward to be there and listen and hold him, perhaps, when it got too much to bear.</p><p>“I think I still have about four-five years in me, and yeah, I already started training to be a ballet rehabilitation specialist,” he says. “I want to take care of people. I feel like it’s always been part of my calling.”</p><p>Edward smiles at him like he invented universal healthcare. “You’ll be amazing,” he says. Tom is used to shrugging off compliments, but this one matters. He’s aware (he’d been told by a very exasperated therapist some years back) that he places a lot of his self-value on being acknowledged, and, quite possibly, he’s never grown out of wanting to impress Edward, get his approval. That starry-eyed look is his award. He gets lost in his gaze, pulled in deep, and he just keeps beaming at Edward wordlessly, tickled pink. Then Edward says, “God, I love you.”</p><p>And, well. It’s not like Tom is not aware.</p><p>He knew before Edward did. That has always been the case.</p><p>He takes a drag from the vape pen and pushes back Edward’s hair from his forehead, who keeps staring at him dreamily. What he just said probably still not registering—but they’re adults, it’s not like the L-word is taboo, and yes, if they were going to voice their emotions, which they’re apparently doing now, any other word would be an understatement. “I love you too,” Tom says, keeping his tone casual.</p><p>Edward barely reacts. Of course he doesn’t. It’s not a surprise or a revelation. Tom has been saying <em>I love you this </em>whole weekend, through trust, laughter, sex, dance, he keeps saying it as he plays with Edward’s hair and this, exactly, is the tragedy of it. The <em>knowledge</em>. That they’re past fretful yearning, innuendos, second-guessing; that what they have is real, and it has a name, and they’re giving it up, Tom is—</p><p>“I realised it when I got back on Friday,” Edward says, closing his eyes as he reminisces. Tom could map out his freckles, see if there’s some hidden message there, <em>it’s not hopeless, don’t give up just yet</em>. “I had to sit down and I stole Sol’s vape and I pulled up your Instagram. Looked at you. Moments I missed. I felt fucking stupid for letting you go. Leaving you.”</p><p>Tom waits for Edward to add something more, but he falls silent again. The sea sighs in the distance. Tom looks at it. He’d swim through it to get to Edward. He’d drink it all up. He’d do fantastic feats, but he cannot do the practicals.</p><p>“Were you scared?” Tom asks. </p><p>Edward pulls up to look at him better. His hair is a shaggy catastrophe and Tom loves it, loves him, every bit.</p><p>“I was happy,” Edward says simply. “When we were teens, however. Yeah. That freaked me out, because I didn’t wanna lose you as a friend, in case it wasn’t returned. Then I went ahead and lost you anyway. I keep—” He cuts himself off.  It’s not dramatic: he just stops talking. That’s his way.</p><p>Edward stands up, and it doesn’t feel like a withdrawal, but Tom’s heart is sinking anyway. He won’t just be able to pretend that everything is all right. It’s not the usual inconvenient emotion he can sweep under the rug. This is love. He won’t stop feeling it, and neither will Edward. Edward will be married to a nice man with horses and kids and he’ll feel the pang of it when he is reminded of Tom; and whenever Tom smells winter on the air or sees sad brown eyes he’ll think of Edward Little, and it’s something they can’t help.</p><p>“Right,” Edward says as he stretches. Shakes his leg; it must’ve fallen asleep while he was curled up in Tom’s lap. Tom wants to offer to massage it. Edward makes a show of looking at his watch, then announces, “Much to do.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Tom whispers. He’s never felt smaller. He can’t do this. He can’t.</p><p>He must.</p><p>He follows Edward back to the hotel room. His head feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton. He’s like Eddie the teddy, mouth sewn shut, a silent memento of affection. There must be something he can say or do to make it all better, offer a cuddle, offer something more substantial, or just keep folding Edward’s shirts.</p><p>He becomes aware that they’re no longer alone when there’s a thud from the hallway and a burly ginger enters with a single skate dangling from his hand by the laces.</p><p>“Hey dipshit, have you seen my—” he begins, then his eyes widen as he looks Tom over.</p><p>“Sol, Tom,” Edward mutters in a minimal effort at an introduction before vanishing into his bedroom. Tom remains, trapped by the need to put on a polite front. A smile is executed well enough, but the interruption is staggering, he didn’t expect Sol to be here, although of course he would be, he needs to pack up too.</p><p>Tom remembers to extend his hand as his smile widens. Sol looks as baffled as Tom feels, but he squeezes his hand and doesn’t let go for a moment. “<em>That</em> Tom?” he asks in a whisper, then repeats it, louder, shouting after Edward, “<em>The</em> Tom?”</p><p>Tom has a feeling it’s not about ballet. Sol lets go of him when Edward answers with a non-commital grunt from the other room, but only to offer a fistbump to Tom. “You’re a legend, my man,” he says. “He never shuts up about you and never will.”</p><p>🩰🏒🩰</p><p>“—you can just tell, he gets this look in his eyes like he’s absolutely miserable—you know, that puppy face he gets?”</p><p>“Ah, yes,” Tom says. “The puppy face.”</p><p>Edward grimaces, glances down at the console. It’s only a few minutes drive to the rink, but with Tozer absolutely insistent on talking with Tom, it feels like it’s taking ages.</p><p>“Yeah, mate,” Tozer says from the backseat. “That one—and from there, it’s only about an hour or so—less, if he has another pint—and then he’ll start talking about you. Never told me you were this goddamn hot, though.”</p><p>“Well,” Tom says, amused. “Focused on my other qualities, did he?”</p><p>“Mostly focused on how badly he’d fucked it all up, to be honest. He exaggerate any of that?”</p><p>Tom glances over at Edward, and Edward directs his own eyes back on the road where they belong. Tightens his hands on the wheel. Hopes to hell that the conversation just moves on, that the topic changes to anything at all, literally anything at all—</p><p>“Oh, shite,” Tozer says. “God, did you know he kept that picture of both of you?”</p><p>Edward’s breath catches in his chest.</p><p>He really wishes the topic change hadn’t been that.</p><p>“A picture?” Tom asks. His voice is mild, professional, slightly confused.</p><p>“He’s probably got it in his wallet now—Little, bring it out—”</p><p>“I’m driving,” Edward grumbles.</p><p>“Tom probably remembers it. Tom, you remember it, right?” Tozer insists. “It’s a goddamn picture of the both of you in, uh, band shirts or something—you looked so fucking young in it, all lanky and shit. You’ve been working out, right? ”</p><p>“Thank you, I think,” Tom says softly, amusement tinting his voice.</p><p>“And Little was all, you know, with his hair? Could hardly see his eyes, his hair was so long. Had his nails painted black, all chipped and shit.”</p><p>Edward cringes. Glares at the traffic as though he can force the other cars to hurry up—it’s Sunday, why is the traffic even <em>here</em> on a Sunday, they just need to get to the goddamn rink, like, yesterday—</p><p>“Oh, <em>that</em> picture,” Tom says. “God. That was—that was so many years ago. Mirror selfie, right?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Tozer says. “That one.”</p><p>“He got that printed?”</p><p>“Yeah!”</p><p>“And it’s in his wallet?”</p><p>“Hey, look,” Edward says. “We’re nearly there.” He finally manages the right onto the road in front of the rink. Church traffic, he realizes. It must be church traffic, there’s no other reason for a small town to have this much traffic on a Sunday.</p><p>“Yeah,” Tozer says. “Uh, right-hand side of his wallet, trimmed down version of a bigger picture.”</p><p>“We were pretty shite at taking pictures,” Tom says easily. “I’m sure the framing was all off.”</p><p>There’s a brief moment of silence before Tozer says, “So, since you’re the new boyfriend, what kind of embarrassing dirt on Little do you want?”</p><p>Boyfriend.</p><p>
  <em>Boyfriend.</em>
</p><p>(<em>I don’t really do boyfriends; not long-term.)</em></p><p>Edward opens his mouth to shut it down, but he’s saved by Tom speaking first.</p><p>“Oh, I think I’d rather find that out myself,” Tom says softly. “That’s half the fun, don’t you think?”</p><p>“Fuckin’ rights,” Tozer says. “Yeah, yeah.”</p><p>Edward pulls the SUV in front of the rink, reaches over and puts his hand on Tom’s thigh to keep him from going anywhere. “Out,” he says gruffly, glancing into the rearview mirror.</p><p>Tozer raises his eyebrows. “We’re early.”</p><p>“Yup,” Edward says. “I’ll be back before we need to get going.” He swallows, stares at the steering wheel so that he stays focused, because if he looks over at Tom, he’ll crumble, do the easy thing—invite Tom into the rink, spend a couple more hours with him, and then go their separate ways. “Taking Tom out on a drive.”</p><p>(At this, Tom shifts in the passenger seat, places his hand on top of Edward’s and squeezes gently.)</p><p>Tozer shifts his jaw. Hesitates. “Want your phone charger,” he says, finally.</p><p>Edward flips up the console, digs out his phone cable, passes it over.</p><p>“Wall adapter?”</p><p>Edward digs that out too, passes it back.</p><p>“Ta,” Tozer says. “I’ll get my bag out of the back.” He reaches over the seat, squeezes Edward’s shoulder, and then gets out of the vehicle, slamming the door behind him a bit harder than what he needs to. Edward watches him through the rearview mirror, watches him grab his hockey bag out of the back before swaggering into the rink, spinning Edward’s cable in his other hand.</p><p>Edward takes a deep breath. Stares at his steering wheel. “If I go in there,” he says carefully, “I’ll just be focusing on work. Like, I know I don’t work till later. And we have time to talk. But if I go in there, it’ll just be…”</p><p>“...work,” Tom says softly. He squeezes Edward’s hand again, and then gestures out the window. “If you leave the car park that direction, there’s a scenic route out of town, you can just follow the signs. It’s easy enough to turn back whenever we like.”</p><p>“Right,” Edward says. He shifts the car into gear, goes the direction Tom has indicated. The road is marked clearly, and the mechanical rhythm of driving is calming for him, allows the knot in his chest to start loosening, just a bit. God, it’s just—everything was so fucking <em>easy</em> this morning, those precious few moments that he had with Tom before he remembered, before his entire life crashed down around his ears, before time caught up with him and kicked his arse out of the fantasy-land he’d built for himself.</p><p>(He can fix it, he can fix it—he’s going to push through this. They’re going to talk it out. They’re going to make it work, make something work, maybe not as boyfriends, but...but surely there is something, surely he can make something happen?)</p><p>The town itself starts to disappear into the rearview mirror. That’s Edward’s cue. He clears his throat, opens his mouth, and the words just—aren’t there.</p><p>Where is he to start? How is he to push forward? What if he pushes too far, breaks it again? What if he doesn’t push it enough, and the connection between them just...frays? What if the opportunity is already gone?</p><p>(What if the opportunity is...now?)</p><p>Edward hazards a glance over at Tom, and can’t help a fond smile—Tom is petting the dash of the vehicle, running his fingers along it.</p><p>He likes it. He likes Edward’s car.</p><p>“Sorry about Sol,” Edward says. “He’s, uh. We’ve got.” He shuts his mouth for a moment, considers.</p><p>“It sounds like you’ve known each other a while,” Tom suggests.</p><p>“Years,” Edward says, relieved to have a direction for it. “We kinda bonded over—well, being gay, more or less. I listened to him, uh, process his feelings about Heather—his boyfriend, now—for years before he actually figured out what he wanted. And he never minded when I got drunk and...talked about you.”</p><p>(He doesn’t bring up the handjobs. Now is probably not the time.)</p><p>Tom leans back into the seat, wiggles a bit. “He made it sound like you, ah. Talked about me rather a lot,” he says, quietly.</p><p>Edward grimaces, stares at the road ahead of him, at the rolling hills, at the cliffs that fall away to the sea. “I did,” he admits. “Every time I got drunk. A couple times sober.” He glances over at Tom for the first time since they’d started driving, meets Tom’s eyes.</p><p>Puts his hand back on Tom’s thigh, and focuses back on the road again. He’s just going to—push through this. Sort out something concrete. Sort out something that ensures that they won’t just let this lapse the moment that Edward leaves town. He...he fucking <em>refuses</em>, this time. He won’t. He will not let Tom Jopson—</p><p>“I’m the same way,” Tom says softly. “Like, if I show up an hour before call? I’m essentially working. And I show up an hour before call a lot.”</p><p>Edward glances over just in enough time to catch Tom crinkling his nose as he scowls.</p><p>“It’s like I said, even if I wanted to, I can’t…”</p><p>“But you do want to?” Edward asks. “With me. You do want to give this a go?” He glances over at Tom again. Then to the road. Then back to Tom.</p><p>(Maybe the time is <em>now</em>.)</p><p>Tom clears his throat. “Desperately,” he admits.</p><p>“Okay,” Edward says, voice cracking, and relief flooding his body, the adrenaline making him jittery. “Okay, I—yeah, okay. Because there’s, like. Lots of ways we can do a relationship. And I’m real low maintenance. I don’t need much—”</p><p>Tom inhales.</p><p>“—don’t just tell me that you can’t guarantee things,” Edward pleads, his right hand low on the steering wheel and the fingertips of his left drumming repetitively on his knee, over and over and over again. <em>Don’t fuck up don’t fuck up don’t fuck up don’t fuck up.</em> “Just—just ask me what I need.”</p><p>“...what do you need,” Tom repeats mechanically.</p><p>“Just this,” Edward says, the words coming out in an uncoordinated rush. (Would that he could be half as smooth in real life as he is on the ice.) “A couple of scraps before work? That’s perfect for me. I can send you a text when I get home tonight, and you can text me back when you’ve got a minute. You’ll be out in Ilfracombe for a bit longer, yeah? I can drive down again another weekend, crash at a B&amp;B again.” He swallows, blinks back the sudden blurriness so he can concentrate on the road, on the hills, on the steep cliffs. “I just want to save your number in my phone, Tom. I just want to know that you want to hear from me. When it’s time for you to come back to London—I’ll fucking come out here and pick you up, drop you off at your brother’s, four and a half hours in a car with you sounds fucking ideal.”</p><p>“And if I’m too tired from the drive to fuck after?”</p><p>“Then you should get some sleep,” Edward says immediately. “I know how to jerk off. I know how porn works. I have, uh.” He swallows, hazards a glance over at Tom, who is gazing out the window at the sea. God, even the back of his head is gorgeous. “A lot of really wonderful memories from this weekend.”</p><p>Tom chuckles. Turns back to face front again. Puts his hand on Edward’s thigh.</p><p>“Let me wait for you,” Edward says, his voice going all to shit again, and something pressing oddly in his chest. Like hope, but weighted down with anxiety so that it’s like lead, stuck to his bones. “Please, I...I just want to wait for you.”</p><p>Tom squeezes his thigh. “Okay,” he says softly. “I don’t think it’ll...I mean...I’m still...”</p><p>“I want to make it work,” Edward insists. “I’m willing to make it work. Like, I’ll take my cues from you—I don’t wanna smother you or anything—I told you, I don’t <em>do</em> anything, I can give up lying around on the couch—”</p><p>“What kind of a sacrifice is that, though?” Tom asks. He squeezes Edward’s thigh, takes a bit of the sting out. “I mean, easy enough to give up nothing for scraps, but how long will your life be like that?”</p><p>Edward grimaces, because the answer is <em>indefinitely</em>. He knows himself. He’s not an exciting man.</p><p>(Grimaces again when he glances down at the dash, lightens his foot on the pedal so that he’s back under the speed limit.)</p><p>“Let me rephrase,” he says, because it’s come out wrong, of course it’s come out wrong—he recognizes the flatness in Tom’s tone; he’d recognize it anywhere. It’s the same flatness he imagined in detail every time he tried to think of how an apology would work, right up until he couldn’t even imagine Tom’s voice anymore outside of that dull, professional monotone. “I won’t sacrifice my job, and I won’t ask you to sacrifice yours.”</p><p>Tom presses his hand a little firmer on Edward’s thigh, doesn’t say anything. Keeps looking straight ahead, even though Edward doesn’t think he’s seeing the road. Tom’s other hand is absently going through a pattern of wrist rotations and movements that Edward suspects are hand stretches. He’ll have to ask. He wants to be familiar with all of these little movements, everything Tom needs.</p><p>“But if I’m not at practice, if I’m not on the ice—I’ll come to you. I’ll skip the afterparties for a chance at your voice, I’ll drive to where you are. I can come to Ilfracombe on my free weekends. If you want to put me on speaker, chat while you’re stretching, or just listen to me getting ready in the morning, I’ll do that.”  Edward takes a slow breath. Runs through a series of checks—side mirrors, rearview, the road in front of him. The sea, the sea. Exhales. “I meant what I said about picking you up and bringing you to London. I meant what I said about my spare bedroom, if you want a bed to sleep on instead of a couch. I’ll rent you a hotel room, if you’d rather. I just—I want to try. I want to know that I tried, and if we give it a go, and it doesn’t work for you—” Edward swallows, and realizes his eyes are stinging. Fuck. God fucking <em>damn</em> it. “If it doesn’t work for you, it doesn’t work,” he finishes, awkwardly, his voice catching. “And you don’t—if you think it’s doomed, you don’t have to—”</p><p>“Hey,” Tom says softly, and he brings his thumb up, swipes at Edward’s cheek. “Hey, hey.”</p><p>Edward laughs, hollow, swipes at the other side of his face with the heel of his hand. “Sorry,” he says, voice throaty. “That’s a lot to just...dump on you.”</p><p>“And most of it wrong, too,” Tom says gently. “It’s not doomed, for one.”</p><p>Edward lets out a rough, ragged breath.</p><p>“And you can call me from the afterparty, you know,” Tom adds.</p><p>Edward blinks, blinks again, and then darts a quick look at Tom.</p><p>“It’s silly to sit at home waiting for me, you need to live your life.”</p><p>“But?”</p><p>“...but I’d like it if you called when you could,” Tom says softly. His hand is back on Edward’s thigh, massaging it through his jeans. “And I’ll call when I can, and text when I can’t. And the drive out here is miserable, but if you wanted to come out and visit, I’ll—I’ll make time for it. And if the offer to give me a ride back to London is still on—”</p><p>Edward nods his head.</p><p>“—then I’ll take you up on that.” He pats the seat with his other hand. “This is a hell of a lot more comfortable than the train.”</p><p>Edward nods again, not sure if he’s going to cry or laugh, and figuring it’s maybe better just to—just to keep his mouth shut for a moment while he tries to get himself under control.</p><p>“I don’t know about the spare room,” Tom admits.</p><p>“That’s okay,” Edward says, finding his voice again. “I know it’s...a lot, I know I’m a lot, I know—”</p><p>“No,” Tom says firmly, squeezing Edward’s thigh. “You aren’t. You’re you, you always have been, only…” He rubs his thumb along Edward’s leg. “Think you grew up a bit while we were apart.”</p><p>Edward exhales, is just about to make a scathing remark about how it wasn’t him, not really, it was his therapist—</p><p>“I hope I did too,” Tom says, softly. He leans forward, gestures lightly with his other hand. “Turn off right there, would you?”</p><p>“Sure,” Edward says, a particularly light-headed feeling enveloping him, because—they’re going to try. They are absolutely going to try. Tom cares about him enough to give him a chance, and Edward is going to make good on it. “Right here?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Tom says. “There’s an overlook for the cliffs there, you’d be silly to be all the way out here without going up there to see it.”</p><p>He slides his hand a little further up Edward’s thigh.</p><p>🏒🩰🏒</p><p><em>You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling,</em> Tom thinks, the lines of poetry looping around in his head as he stares at the sea ahead, not looking at Edward, because it’s easier if he doesn’t look at Edward, but his hand is on his thigh. <em>You’re in a car</em>… and he’s looking ahead at a seagull, and pretends he has all the time in the world to watch it circle above the cliffs, and he’s not even sure it’s real, <em>you’re trying to choke down the feeling,</em> but he’s looking. He follows the inseam of Edward’s jeans. He is so solid; <em>he </em>is definitely real.</p><p>(This is real.)</p><p><em>You’re trying not to tell him</em>...</p><p>It’s his turn to speak.</p><p><em>You’re in a car with a beautiful boy</em>… how does it go on? For the life of him, he can't recall the rest of the poem, just these three lines carved into his memory. It means it ends however he wants it to end, right? <em>You’re in a car,</em> that much is certain, and they can go anywhere.</p><p>Tom hazards a glance.</p><p>Edward is staring ahead. He seems...at peace, somehow, even though his posture is tight, it always is. (Except when Tom’s touch registers. Then he melts. There’s no tension in the thigh he’s petting.) Tom likes his profile. The lines of worry on his forehead, his serious brows and ridiculous nose. Edward catches his gaze. Doesn’t let go, and neither will Tom.</p><p>“Remember those Choose Your Own Adventure books you liked?” Tom asks, voice a bit shaky. (It’s not every day someone offers their beating heart on a silver tray for him. <em>You’re trying to choke down the feeling</em>.)</p><p>“Which one?” Edward asks easily enough. He keeps one hand on the steering wheel, even with the car parked. A comfort of mobility, maybe. Maybe he has no idea where to put his hands. Never did. Tom glances at the clock on the dash. They still have time. They could have so much time—</p><p>“They were all the same,” Tom says and feels Edward stiffen, ready for an argument, which is adorable. He’s defensive of the things he loves. That includes Tom, he knows. He’s  afraid of slipping up, but maybe this time, Edward would catch him. “I mean, structurally,” Tom adds, feels Edward relax. “You just needed to choose the next step.”</p><p>“You always flipped to the back,” Edward says fondly.</p><p>“Yes, but—that’s me, and it didn’t help anyway, the numbers were—” Tom makes a face remembering the chaos. “What I mean is, you didn’t need to have a ten year plan or whatever, not if you wanted an adventure. I was just never adventurous.”</p><p>The metaphor is starting to register for Edward. He tilts his head, looks Tom over. “You’re plenty adventurous,” he says. “You went to the Arctic?”</p><p>“That was...a job,” Tom says, his grip on the conversation slipping away. Maybe he should let it. Maybe he should stop planning every word, every breath. “I’m curious,” he says, “but I don’t think I’m adventurous. You, on the other hand. I’m surprised you didn’t backpack around Europe.”</p><p>“I did,” Edward mumbles. “South America, too. And I was very old school about it too, it was just me and a backpack and uh. Hitchhiking.”</p><p>Tom’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. Edward looks almost embarrassed.</p><p>“You never brag about it,” Tom says, haunted by Tinder dates; then, more softly, he adds, “It’s a story I’d like to hear.”</p><p>Edward blinks, drops his gaze. It’s a shame that affirmations are so surprising, that Tom saying<em> I care about you</em> in a number of ways is met with so much bafflement, but it’s his own doing.</p><p><em>You’re trying not to tell him</em>…</p><p>“So,” Edward says, clears his throat. “Choose Your Own Adventure books.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“What do you want to do next?”</p><p>“It’d seem,” Tom says, “that my options are limitless.” He stops, trying to phrase it better. He notices he’s still petting Edward’s leg. Stills his hand. It doesn’t feel right. Not at all.</p><p>What does he want?</p><p>The extension of this moment into forever.</p><p>That’s not possible.</p><p>He can keep stroking Edward’s leg, however. He turns his hand, rubs his knuckles over the muscles. Edward reacts, arching into his touch. He seems to be attuned to the tiniest movements Tom makes, and isn’t that rewarding, isn’t that the point of his existence at present,<em> look at me dance, look again.</em> But it’s more than that: art is just the expression of something deeper, something bigger than himself.</p><p>What does he want?</p><p>To be a carer. To be able to <em>accept </em>care.</p><p>What does he want <em>next</em>?</p><p>Move his hand. Feel the touch of denim like he’s never touched jeans before, like the sensation is entirely foreign, and like Edward is the first man he ever touched beside himself, no past, no future, just the next movement. He hooks his fingers into his beltloop, pulls. Edward sighs, and Tom is so attuned to him he could swear he feels the warmth of his breath on his face. The next move—kiss him? Break the moment: speak? Follow the choreography: put his hand where it needs to be? He cups Edward’s cock because that’s where he wants to place his hand. He’s soft, so the next step is to change that, because he was so wonderfully hard this morning before everything went to hell, and Tom liked that, liked that he could indulge Edward, help him out, offer his thighs and take away the ache.</p><p>“Do you have condoms?” Tom asks, pressing the heel of his hand over Edward’s shaft.</p><p>“Condoms?” Edward asks back, pleasantly surprised; his cock reacts too, and Tom strokes it lovingly.</p><p>“One will do.”</p><p>“Shit,” Edward mutters. “No, I—I think in my bag?” He twists his head back to peer into the boot, instinctively, as if he could see into it from here, and as he does so he grabs Tom’s wrist and presses his hand closer, so casually all Tom can do is stare.</p><p>(Well. He’s quite chuffed that Edward is this used to his hand on his cock now, he—better get used to it, shouldn’t he, to be pleased whenever he so fancies, because that’s the life Tom wants to give him, that’s—</p><p>—that’s a hundred steps ahead.) </p><p>“No condoms in the glove box?” he asks playfully, heart hammering in his ears. Edward is definitely getting hard for him. Tom wants to fuck the sad out of him. Wants it so badly.</p><p>“Who keeps condoms in the glove box?” Edward mumbles, turning back to look at Tom, then answers his own question, “Sol would.”</p><p>“People with luxury SUVs,” Tom adds.</p><p>Edward’s brows furrow. “I didn’t know that.”</p><p>“It’s a suck-my-dick car,” Tom says, not unkindly, his grip on Edward’s cock tightening. He’s way too cute when he’s out of his depth. He’s cute and he wants to keep Tom, he has plans to make it into a reality, he thought about it and he can be trusted, can’t he, he’s changed—</p><p>(<em>Go back ten pages. Start again.</em>)</p><p>“I don’t—do that,” Edward says.</p><p>“You got a G-wagon and never got your dick sucked in it?”</p><p>“No? I wanted a convertible but I can’t say no to salespeople.”</p><p>Tom hums softly, stroking his cock still. His life would be easier if it wasn't so thick and perfect. Nevertheless,<em> right now</em> he’s very happy to be fondling a beautiful, big cock, to tease Edward and wait until epiphany reaches him.</p><p>“You want to suck my dick?” Edward says.</p><p>Tom grips his balls, as a reward. Squeezes carefully. “Do you want me?”</p><p>“I don’t have condoms,” Edward says with a heartbreaking expression of regret, but bucks into Tom’s hand nevertheless.</p><p>“We’re both good,” Tom says, “and I won’t have sex with anyone else in the near future.”</p><p>A significant pause follows as Tom hopes Edward gets his meaning. <em>You’re trying not to tell him you love him</em>...Why? Why not just say it again? Why not repeat what was so easy to say on the balcony, and this time, let it mean <em>I love you and I will act on it</em>, let it be a promise?</p><p>(Words are empty. Actions speak. Not a word is uttered during ballet but people get it, and Edward said<em> I’ve got something to tell you</em> then left him in a hospital.)</p><p>“Are you sure?”</p><p>“I want to service you,” Tom says, and at this point it’s getting borderline pathetic, like he’s unable to say it, like he’s been cursed to turn into a swan or something if the forbidden word of <em>love</em> graces his lips, but it means—it means so much more, when Edward’s eyes darken and he nods.</p><p>Does he know?</p><p>Does he know what it means?</p><p>Tom wants to make him understand. He looks into his eyes as he undoes the zipper. “I wouldn’t do this just for anyone, Ned,” he says. “I want you to know that. I’m not the sort of man to suck cock in a car.”</p><p>“No,” Edward says, awed, as Tom takes him in hand. The angle is a momentary challenge in a car this big. Thank God he bends abnormally well. “You’re way classier.”</p><p>“A classy cocksucker,” Tom says. Bows his head as Edward curses, breathes over the glistening head. How the hell did he cream his pants already? Is it for Tom? Tom only? He closes his lips around the tip, taking his first taste.</p><p>“Fuck, you look good like this,” Edward says. He grabs the handle above his head for leverage.</p><p>“Should I do it more often?” Tom asks playfully, and he wants Edward to say <em>yes</em> in no uncertain terms, wants him to say that it’s possible, imagines a future where Edward drops him off for practice and he says <em>thank you</em> like this, right in the car park where anyone could walk by, and he wouldn’t mind, because this is Edward, and he just wants to give him everything, more than he has, all he deserves—</p><p>“Fuck, you were made to suck my cock,” Edward says and Tom could weep with relief that he gets it, because that’s who Tom wants to be at this moment, someone with no responsibilties, no burdens and aspirations, living solely for Edward’s pleasure. It’s just the crushing guilt that he can’t be like this always, a smiling servant for ecstasy who’d greet Edward when he gets home, take his coat and suck his cock, run him a bath and laze around for hours.</p><p>To be fair, Tom is not certain Edward would even like that guy.</p><p>Aspects of him, maybe. But he loves Tom for more than—whatever this is, submissive tendencies, desire to please, perfectionism, praise kink, he doesn’t know, he just knows he’s more.</p><p>He sucks cock like a champion, but he also makes lovely pancakes, dances Desiré's variation like he didn’t practice all his life for it, and he can hand-stitch anything, and he wants Edward to enjoy all of that. He wants to be the person who mends his underwear.</p><p>He doesn’t know if he can ever be that.</p><p>But maybe the next step leads there.</p><p>He swallows deeper. He can give Edward this, right now. Give it to both of them.</p><p>“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Edward chants, canting his hips. “Where’s—why don’t you have a gag reflex, Jesus—”</p><p>Tom gives him a proud wink that implies that this is all vigorous training. He’s lucky, he thinks, that he met Edward again at his current best, when he can give him more than spit, dry heaving and embarrassed giggles. He’s sprawled over his lap without any concern as to how he looks, because he can be assured he looks nothing less than himself, bobbing his head lazily, well-practiced, at ease as a car drives by, too fast to see anything.</p><p>He takes Edward in with all the adoration he feels,<em> you’re trying not to tell him</em>, but God, that’s rubbish: he’s saying it better than poetry. It’s love; it’s worship. It’s taking care of Edward in a way he knows how <em>now</em>, in a window of time, showing off his skill and getting praised as Edward caresses his hair, whispers “How are you real?” and Tom likes the sound of that, because it’s all too apt. He exists in this moment, exists as a man who has all the time in the world to please his boyfriend.</p><p>If Edward asked him back in the hotel if he had the time to casually deepthroat him on a Sunday morning, he would’ve laughed.</p><p>Apparently, he has the time.</p><p>“I, fuck, I think I’m gonna come?” Edward says. Tom mumbles something that was intended to be <em>“you better,”</em> because he did not put in all this effort to be patted on the cheeks and thanked sincerely, which he’s had happen to him, partners who were much too considerate, who loved to decide for him where his limit was.</p><p>It’s not at swallowing come.</p><p>Edward makes the cutest grunt as he spills down his throat, and the fist in Tom’s hair tightens (God, he loves that, and Edward noticed), and he pulls Tom off before he’s quite finished to—oh. Okay. To paint Tom’s lips with his come, apparently. His cheeks. His chin.</p><p>Edward holds him by his hair and looks at him like he’s committing it all to memory, to remember Tom marked his. Tom swallows audibly, making a show of it, and he’s not letting Edward look away. Not ever again.</p><p>“If you think we have even a snowball’s chance in hell,” he says, voice ragged, “I want that. Let’s be snowballs together?”</p><p>Edward snorts,  his gaze dazed, and fond and warm and loving, and he wipes Tom’s cheeks as if it could—do anything. But the intent is there. And that matters. “Snowballs, then,” Edward says. He gets a Kleenex.</p><p>Tom never thought he’d find someone dabbing at his cheeks with a tissue romantic.</p><p>“Do you want me to get you off?” Edward asks, and that’s romantic, too. He makes it sound like that.</p><p>“I’ll manage,” Tom says, even though he’s subtly squirming in his seat. He knows that Edward is not asking this to be polite, that he’d be more than happy to indulge. That knowledge is enough, for now.</p><p>Edward cups his face once it’s clean-ish, kisses him deeply. Tom can feel him smile against his lips, and he cannot resist opening his eyes. He, of course, cannot see much—but he can see laughing lines around Edward’s eyes, and that’s all he wants.</p><p>🩰🏒🩰</p><p>Fuck, Edward loves the rink. Loves the ice under his blades, the comforting bulk of his gear, loves his jersey, loves his team. Hell, he even loves being out here, in a small-town rink. There are enough people in the stands—parents, siblings, friends—that there’s a constant murmur of conversation, punctuated by occasional yells or cheers, and the crisp air feels great on his face. The ice is a little more roughed up today—there must have been public skating yesterday, that always causes more damage than anything—but it feels lived in and comfortable. He knows Tom is watching him from the stands. They’ve already received positive feedback about the workshop. It’s been a nice day.</p><p>“Great work,” Edward says, high-fiving the kids as they skate past him. “Great improvement. Nice skating. Keep it up.” He pats the last kid on the back, looks up in time to see Tozer staring at him. “What?”</p><p>Tozer mouths something indistinct at him.</p><p>Edward shrugs. He’s grinning, he can feel it on his face.</p><p>Tozer spits out his mouthguard, speaks in an undertone. “The hell was that?”</p><p>“They did good,” Edward protests. He’s still smiling. He glances to the side, makes sure the last kid is off the ice, and then idly starts skating backward, away from the boards.</p><p>“Not that,” Tozer says, following him. “Your face.” He gestures at his own mouth.</p><p>“Good wrap-up,” Edward says blithely. That’s not it, though, and they both know that’s not it. Well. Tozer suspects that’s not it, but Tozer’s not stupid. He’s probably seen Tom in the stands, might have caught Edward looking for him earlier. There’s no way for Tozer to know about the blowjob, though, about the eager way Tom had sucked him off, his body bent nearly double, his lips right against Edward’s—</p><p>“You fucked in the car, didn’t you,” Tozer says.</p><p>Edward’s mouth breaks into a full-out grin before his brain has had a moment to think of a comeback.</p><p>“Fuckin’ hell,” Tozer says, and he picks up the pace, skating toward Edward faster. “Backseat, right?”</p><p>Edward glances quickly over his shoulder, confirms the ice is still empty, and starts skating backwards just a little faster. Doesn’t say anything—but he can’t stop grinning like an idiot either.</p><p>Tozer is scowling. “I’ll fucking sit in the back the whole way home if you’ve fucked in my spot.”</p><p>“Nah, we didn’t,” Edward says, turning sharply and skating away from Tozer again. “No mess, everything’s good.”</p><p>Tozer makes a big production of spraying snow as he stops, sharp, and then chases after Edward again. “Yeah? He swallow?”</p><p>“I’m not sharing any of that,” Edward says. God, his legs are starting to burn—he’s used to skating, he’s not used to this much sex. Scans the stands over Tozer’s shoulder, looking for—ah, there’s Tom, standing there watching him. Smiling. God, he’s handsome. His hair is perfect, and he has that mysterious little half-smile on his face. “Without his permission,” Edward adds.</p><p>Tozer chuckles. “You need me to tap out, make you look like the hero for out-skating me?”</p><p>“Now look who’s being magnanimous.”</p><p>Tozer grins at him, wolfish. “Ask me about last night’s Skype call.”</p><p>Edward raises his eyebrows, but is saved from any kind of response when the loudspeaker crackles to life to announce the start of public skating.</p><p>In unison, both Edward and Tozer slow down until they’re just gliding around the rink. The cool air feels nice on Edward’s face, and he reaches up, undoes the strap of his helmet and lets it hang loose.</p><p>“You sticking around a bit?” Tozer asks.</p><p>“I’m not in a rush to get going,” Edward admits. He glances over his shoulder. Tom is still in the stands, but he’s come down with the rest of Hannah’s family to the boards, now, where she’s demonstrating her ability to skate backwards. “You?”</p><p>“Not showering with a bunch of kids in the change room,” Tozer says. “I’ll be wiping noses and unlacing skates for hours if I don’t let them clear out of there first.”</p><p>“Fair.” Edward watches Tom chat to Hannah, his head tilted down just enough to—ah, there it goes. That stubborn bit of hair has fallen forward again, and Edward slows down to a stop, watches Tom tuck it back behind his ear.</p><p>“You’re fucking lucky nobody locked him down before your dumb ass found him again,” Tozer says.</p><p>Edward bites his lip, watches Tom’s lips move. Feels his face go hot as Tom glances over at him, corners of his mouth curving up into a smile. “I know,” he says, softly.</p><p>Tozer thumps him on his shoulder. “Well, go talk to him. I’m gonna go do a couple laps.”</p><p>Edward whacks Tozer on the chest. “Thanks.”</p><p>“Yeah, fuck off,” Tozer says, but he’s grinning.</p><p>Edward nods, skates toward the boards. Towards Tom.</p><p>🏒</p><p>“This is a terrible idea,” Tom warns. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”</p><p>“It’s good,” Edward says. He’s kneeling in the penalty box in his sock feet, tapping his toes on the cool floor as he steadies his empty skate between his thighs. “Here, I’ve got it loose—slide your other foot in here now.”</p><p>“You’ll second-guess the whole thing,” Tom says.</p><p>Edward glances up at him, bites his lip. “Nah,” he says, after a brief moment of consideration. “I really won’t.” He shifts his hand, strokes Tom’s calf. “There you go, I’ll tighten this one up for you too.” He grips the laces tight in his hands, bends forward and presses his lips to Tom’s knee as he pulls, keeping the skate steady between his thighs.</p><p>“This is not how I imagined you would next be between my legs,” Tom says softly, wistfully. He puts his hand in Edward’s hair, strokes the back of his neck. “You’re all damp.”</p><p>“Helmet sweat,” Edward says, deftly tying the skate laces.</p><p>“Gross,” Tom replies fondly. He doesn’t move his hand from the back of Edward’s neck, tugs at the long locks in the back. “It must be warm when you’re skating that fast?”</p><p>“I mean, the gear is…”</p><p>Tom leans forward, buries his face in Edward’s shoulder, and <em>sniffs</em> the back of his neck.</p><p>Edward’s voice trails off, and he shudders, feeling his cock twitch. “...hi.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Tom says into his hair before sitting up again.</p><p>Edward peers up at him. Tom’s pupils are dilated, his face slightly pink. “I usually, uh. Shower before I leave the rink.”</p><p>“Right,” Tom says vaguely.</p><p>Edward pats the laces of the skates. Reaches for Tom’s hand, and holds it as he stands up, presses his lips to Tom’s fingertips. “Come on.”</p><p>“You can’t possibly go out on the ice like that.”</p><p>Edward blinks, glances down. His skates are on Tom’s feet, and he’s standing there in his socks. “Right. Um.”</p><p>Someone clears their throat behind them.</p><p>Edward scrunches his toes in his socks, tries to think.</p><p>“Hey,” says a familiar voice.</p><p>Edward turns, grins at the mountain of hockey gear very nearly hiding the short girl underneath. Hannah. “Hi.”</p><p>“Hey, little coach,” she says. She holds up the adult-sized set of skates she’s holding in her other hand. “Brought you some skates. Did you get Tom’s on?”</p><p>“I did,” Edward says gravely, reaching over and taking the skates from her. “Got them tightened up and everything.”</p><p>She leans over the boards, peers at Tom’s feet. “Looks good.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“You even did the good knot!”</p><p>“I did the good knot,” Edward agrees. “And the good toe tighten.”</p><p>“Sweet.” She holds out her fist for Edward to bump, beams at both of them. “Have a nice skate!” And then she’s off, skating backwards with only a minor wobble at the beginning as she gets into a rhythm.</p><p>“She learned a lot from you this week,” Tom says.</p><p>“‘s good,” Edward replies, leaning into Tom for a moment, appreciating just...having Tom’s weight against him. Appreciating that they can have this. “God, I hope she didn’t pay to rent these, I’ll have to get her some money before we leave.” He pats his pocket as though he’s got money there, but he knows he absolutely doesn’t, and his wallet is in his...no, it’s not, it’s back in his car. Alright, he’ll have to—</p><p>Tom puts his hand on Edward’s arm, squeezes. “It’s fine,” he says softly. “Her dad is friends with Reid, he runs the place.” He frowns, glances down at his own feet. “Are you sure you’re okay with me using your skates?”</p><p>“Please use my skates,” Edward says, pressing his knee against Tom’s. “I’ll just be two seconds getting these ones on.” His hands are already working at the laces, loosening them, and tugging the tongue out of the way so he can slide his foot in. God, it feels totally bizarre to be in a set of skates that haven’t been broken in for his feet specifically—but Tom’s beside him, and so he doesn’t mind, not one bit. He laces himself up quickly, distracted by the press of Tom’s thigh against his. Tucks the laces in, stands up, and holds both hands out to Tom. “Give me your hands?”</p><p>Tom exhales, grasps Edward’s hands in his own, and stands up, almost immediately leaning forward into Edward. “Yikes.”</p><p>“Sorry,” Edward says, supporting Tom’s forearms as he moves them slowly toward the ice. “The, uh—blade’s curved? So you’ve gotta keep your weight—yeah, like that. Speed skates have a flat blade, so do figure skates, but figure skates have got the pick on them, I totally made an ass out of myself trying them out. Caught the pick the first time I tried to turn, ended up sprawled flat-out on the ice like an idiot. Watch your step here out of the box.”</p><p>Tom’s face has an adorable set to his mouth, his lips pressed together as he concentrates, steps down onto the ice after Edward. Edward can’t stop himself from smiling. He’s vaguely conscious of the way the rental skates fit oddly on his insteps, but it doesn’t matter. He’s on the ice, and the surface underneath him is more familiar than anything. He knows it, can sense the surface through his blades—every scrape, every bit of texture. He mourns, briefly, that it’s not fresh ice, that Tom doesn’t have the experience of being the first person to glide out over the glassy surface—but considering the way Tom is clutching onto Edward, scowling down at his own feet as though they’re betraying him in some unforeseen way, maybe that’s alright.</p><p>“Doing okay?” Edward asks softly. The rink isn’t overly busy, and they’re still right by the boards, not in anyone’s way. Nobody’s skating particularly close to them either, and after a quick glance over his shoulder, Edward determines they’re not likely to—most of the kids on the ice are clustered around Tozer, down at the other end. They’ve a certain amount of privacy here as well—the people in the stands have mostly packed up to leave, and the stragglers that remain are talking to each other in small groups.</p><p>Tom nods his head. Pauses. Shakes it. “I imagined this differently,” he says, after a moment. “You always made it look so <em>easy</em>.”</p><p>“Nah,” Edward says, fighting every instinct he has to start moving and forcing himself to stay perfectly still, let Tom adjust to the feeling of the ice under his feet. “You just didn’t know me when I was still learning. There’s, uh. Pictures of me as a kid where I’m just godawful. Stuck in snowbanks, skating using a pylon for balance. I have a scar on my knee from racing my older siblings. I thought I could stop, and I took a spill, hit some jagged ice and cut my knee up.” He squeezes Tom’s arms. “I’ve got you now, though. Are you feeling stable?”</p><p>Tom blinks at him. His eyes are blue ice, and his mouth is determined, and Edward loves him completely, fully, absolutely. “Maybe?”</p><p>“Take your time,” Edward says. He rubs his thumb on Tom’s sleeves. It’s possible he should have swung by the cottage to get Tom a sweater—the cool air in the rink is probably a lot for someone who isn’t used to it—but, selfishly, he’s not saying anything because he can see Tom’s nipples through his shirt, and it’s gratifying. “Normally, I would suggest that we practice falling, just so it doesn’t freak you out if it happens—but you don’t want to, huh?”</p><p>Tom laughs, low in his throat. “No, thank you.” He shifts his weight, slightly, gripping onto Edward tightly even though he looks outwardly...if not relaxed, at least not panicked. God, he can feel the muscles in Tom’s forearms through the fabric.  “This isn’t like dance.”</p><p>“Next time I’m out, you can teach me,” Edward offers. “I’m godawful, and I haven’t improved since I was eighteen. I definitely need it.” He can <em>feel</em> Tom’s body relax as Tom smiles. Fuck, everything about this is perfect. The sounds of the other skaters are echoing off the ceiling, he has the ice under his skates, he has Tom in his arms. It’s perfect. “Wanna march? Just pick your skate up, put it down.”</p><p>Tom scrunches his face. Carefully lifts his right foot, puts it down. Does the same with his left. “...okay. That’s not so bad?”</p><p>Edward is grinning. His face hurts. “Okay, now...I’m gonna skate backward, and you can just hold onto me and glide, get used to moving forward?”</p><p>“Ugh,” Tom says. “I bet I’m worse than...a six year old.”</p><p>Edward shrugs. He’s seen some pretty precocious six year olds, but that’s not the point. “Well, they don’t get private lessons from Edward Little,” he teases. “That’s for Tom Jopson, principal dancer, only.” He shifts his hands so that he’s holding Tom’s in his. “There’s probably a dance equivalent to this? But try to relax a little bit, soften your knees.”</p><p>“There’s no ballet equivalent of relaxing,” Tom deadpans, but he does soften a little, lets Edward pull him on the ice.</p><p>It’s fascinating just watching him—he’s not comfortable, not yet, but instead of the wild overcorrections that most novice skaters make, Tom is making hundreds of minute corrections as he goes, shifting his weight, his hands alternately gently and firmly gripping Edward’s.</p><p>“Can you get your weight down a touch?” Edward asks, correcting their course so that they stick closer to the boards, where there’s less traffic. “You’re inches taller than I am right now, and you really shouldn’t be.”</p><p>“You’re skating <em>crouched</em>,” Tom says, offended.</p><p>“Look,” Edward says, straightening up and bringing his skates in closer together. “If I do this, I can’t move. I can’t react to anything.” He widens his stance, drops back into a normal skating position. “I can actually move when I’m like this.”</p><p>Tom scrunches his nose, lowers himself a fraction of an inch.</p><p>“There,” Edward says, encouragingly. “You’re doing well.”</p><p>“I look ridiculous,” Tom says darkly. “Like I’m defecating.”</p><p>“You’re very handsome while taking a shit,” Edward says. He glances back over his shoulder again, spies the group of kids at the end of the rink who appear to be getting a game of crack-the-whip going. He frowns, turns slightly and starts guiding Tom back the direction they’d come, because the last thing he needs is the distraction of the last kid inevitably coming free from the whip and hurtling across the ice. “There, good job.”</p><p>God, it feels good to be here. The sweat in his hair is finally starting to dry, he’s getting used to the weirdness of the borrowed skates, and the ice feels great under his feet. He’s holding Tom’s hands in his own, and Tom has relaxed enough that Edward is able to skate backward just fast enough that he can feel a whisper of a breeze on the back of his neck. Tozer is sitting on the boards talking to Hannah’s dad, and Hannah is standing on the ice listening, her stick held across her shoulders.</p><p>It’s not what Edward had expected—part of him had thought that skating would come easily and naturally to Tom, that they would be doing laps by the end of it, that Edward could teach him how to hold a stick—but it’s more honest this way, Edward decides. It’s something they can work on over time. It’s something that’ll <em>last</em>.</p><p>🏒</p><p>The locker room is empty when Edward shoulders the door open, holds it for Tom, who is still following behind him, his face pink from the exertion of skating, or maybe just the cool air of the rink.</p><p>“So,” Tom says, looking around the room. He’s back in his shoes now, going through a complicated-looking pattern of foot rises that he seems to be doing completely unconsciously. “How’s this compare to other change rooms?”</p><p>Edward glances at it too, at the painted cinderblock walls and the wooden benches, the hooks on the walls, and beyond that, the showers with their thin plastic curtains. He shrugs. “Most smaller rinks are pretty much exactly like this.” He gestures to the side, and then down past the showers. “There’s lockers over there, toilets down that direction.” He scrubs his hand through his hair, grimaces at how lank it feels. Suppresses his usual instinct to check how bad he smells—he’s sweaty enough that he doesn’t need to bring attention to it.</p><p>“Suppose your change room back at home is way fancier than this, huh?” Tom wanders over to Edward’s bag, which is the only thing left on the bench.</p><p>Edward shrugs. Sets his skates down. “I mean, yeah, but it’s never empty either, you know? There’s something to be said for being able to shower in peace and quiet at the end of the day.”</p><p>Tom raises his eyebrows, glances around the room. “Guess it is empty here, huh?”</p><p>Edward nods, reaches behind himself and grabs his jersey, tugs it off. Tosses the jersey onto the closest bench, and starts working on his pads. “I’m so happy you came with me today,” he says, moving through the undressing routine by muscle memory. “It was so nice having you here.” He glances up, watches as Tom sits on the bench, fingers touching the hem of Edward’s jersey.</p><p>Tom lifts his head, rakes his gaze slowly over Edward’s body. “Hell of a lot of gear you’ve got on.”</p><p>Edward tosses his elbow pads into his open bag, starts loosening the straps on his shoulder pads. “Yeah, I’m much smaller out of it.”</p><p>“Well,” Tom says, voice low. “Not that small, Edward Little.” His fingers twitch on the jersey, closing around the fabric, as he pulls his eyes down the length of Edward’s body again before sighing. “You’ll have to send me pictures when you’re back in London, I’ll be deprived of, well. All <em>this</em> once you’re gone.”</p><p>Edward scoffs, tosses the shoulder pads into his bag, and loosens his pants, feeling pleasantly tired—not exhausted in the way that a good workout leaves him, but...happy. “Not any good at sexy pictures, but I’ll do my best.” He lets his gear fall to the ground, hesitates. “You had an okay time today? It was worth skipping your rehearsal?”</p><p>Tom smiles back at him, dimples showing. God, he’s so fucking stunning like this. He’d been so fucking brave on the ice—Edward is pretty sure he’d been scared shitless, but Tom had set his jaw and worked through it, and it’s fucking admirable as all hell.</p><p>“So worth it,” Tom says softly. “I love seeing you in your element.”</p><p>Edward ducks his head shyly, fumbles with his gear as he loosens the rest. “Thank you.” He glances toward the showers. “I’ll just be a second once I get this all off. God, I bet it doesn’t take you half as much time to get undressed.”</p><p>“I usually have makeup, though,” Tom says. “Full-coverage foundation, euch.” He glances down at Edward’s gear. “Take your time,” he offers. “I’m not in a rush. Like you said. We’re alone here.”</p><p>Edward nods. Takes a step forward and presses his lips against Tom’s hair. He’s pleasantly surprised when Tom hums, pleased, and then brings his hands up, rests them on Edward’s waist. “‘m sweaty,” Edward says. “Sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t mind,” Tom murmurs, tipping his head up to kiss Edward back.</p><p>Edward sighs, sways into him. Lingers, there, for longer than he should, considering. When they finally break apart, he’s lightheaded with it, grinning like an idiot as he pulls down his underwear. When he turns to head for the showers, he’s conscious of Tom’s eyes on his bare arse in a way that he hasn’t been conscious of anyone looking at him since, well. Since any time Tom had looked at him this weekend, really. God, he’ll miss him. (He hopes the sexy pictures won’t be that hard to figure out.)</p><p>He steps into the shower, yanks the tap on. Winces when the water runs cold, first—it’s been like that all week, and he somehow keeps fucking forgetting—but then after his scalp stops prickling, his body adjusts. God, he feels good. He feels so fucking good right now. His skin is all over goosebumps from the cold water, and his muscles ache from the sex this weekend more than the skating, but it feels great. He feels centered in his body, the way they always talk about in his training meetings, the way that yoga and team building exercises and all that kind of shit never quite managed to achieve. But he’s feeling it now. Tom’s out there waiting for him, and they’ll have time for—more kisses, probably, before he needs to leave, before he needs to drive Tozer and himself back to London. But he’ll still have Tom. He’s going to get to keep Tom.</p><p>Edward hangs his head under the slowly-warming spray, runs his fingers through his hair. He scrubs his palm at the back of his neck before—shit.</p><p>His shower gel is back in his bag, still.</p><p>Edward leaves the shower on, shifts the curtain to the side and sticks his head out, about to call to Tom when he just—stops.</p><p>Tom is standing there, next to Edward’s bag, and he—and he has Edward’s jersey on. He’s wearing Edward’s jersey, his hands clenched in the front of it, his nose buried in the fabric.</p><p><em>Oh</em>, Edward thinks.</p><p><em>Oh</em>.</p><p>The steam is coming up around him, the now-hot water still pounding on his lower body, and Edward just...stands there, watches Tom inhale. Realizes that he’s breathing deliberately deeply, that Tom has the jersey clutched in his hands and pressed to his face because he’s <em>smelling</em> it. And, oh, god, it’s huge on him—he hasn’t got any pads or anything on underneath, and he’s built like a dancer besides, so it’s just hanging loosely on his torso, and even after he takes it off, he’s going to smell like Edward. When Edward drops him back off at home, Tom will still smell like Edward. When he texts Tom tonight…</p><p>“Hey,” Edward says softly, fully expecting Tom to startle.</p><p>Tom doesn’t startle. Tom looks up at him slowly, his eyes dark. “Yes?”</p><p>Fuck, the jolt of longing that pulses through Edward’s body is perfect. He reaches down, adjusts his cock, gestures with his other hand. “C’mere.”</p><p>“You’re wet,” Tom notes. His voice is still low, his hands still clutched in Edward’s jersey, and god, Edward wants him.</p><p>“Can’t ruin your clothes,” Edward agrees. “Why don’t you take them off?”</p><p>In response, Tom smirks at him. Does some kind of complicated—turn thing that has him at the entrance to the locker room in a matter of moments, flicking the deadbolt on the door, and then he’s turning back to Edward, looking like he’s just accomplished something he’s horribly proud of. He leans back against the locked door.  “Why don’t I,” he agrees. He drags his hand down Edward’s jersey before settling it on the button of his trousers. His eyes are dark, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips.</p><p>Edward grins. Beckons.</p><p>(He’ll owe Tozer a favour after this. Whatever happens, it’s definitely putting a delay into their schedule.)</p><p>Tom is smiling. His hands are working underneath Edward’s jersey, undoing his trousers. God, Edward wants to step out of the shower, look at him proper, but he’ll just drip on the floor if he does that, so he just—keeps leaning out, watches the movements of Tom’s hands, the way his own jersey drapes so flatteringly over Tom’s torso, exposing his bare arms—</p><p>—wait.</p><p>Edward squints at Tom, and then looks back at the bench, next to his bag.</p><p>Tom’s button-up shirt is there, sitting on the bench, folded neatly, and his shoes are lined up on the floor.</p><p>Edward exhales. “Didn’t waste any time, did you.”</p><p>“Wanted your sweat on my skin,” Tom says, voice low. He stops where he’s standing—about halfway between the door and Edward—and pushes his trousers down his thighs, steps out of them. Folds them deftly, sets them on the bench atop his shirt. The jersey is long enough on him that it falls mid-thigh. “It feels good, Edward.”</p><p>Edward shudders. Reaches back without looking, turns the shower off. Runs his hands back through his hair, skims them down his body to sluice off the worst of the water. “Don’t take it off,” he says. There’s a towel right there, but he doesn’t reach for it. “Wanna kiss you when you smell like me.”</p><p>“You can do more than that,” Tom offers. He reaches under the jersey, palms himself. “You were so handsome on the ice today.”</p><p>Edward whines, steps out of the shower and shakes water off his foot, pads carefully across the floor leaving damp footsteps behind him. And then he’s standing in front of Tom. Tom, who is standing there wearing only Edward’s jersey. Tom, whose hand is between his own legs, moving steadily underneath the jersey.</p><p>God, Edward wants him. Edward wants him so much.</p><p>“Let me kiss you,” he says.</p><p>“Yes,” Tom breathes.</p><p>🏒🩰🏒</p><p>Tom will never get bored of kissing Edward. To be fair, it’s closer to snogging, because he just can’t stop himself from licking, nibbling, pulling back just to collide again. He combs his fingers through Edward’s sodden muttonchops, traces the shape of his mouth with his thumb, then drops his hands lower, squeezing his pecs while he kisses him again. Edward moans into his mouth as Tom tugs at his piercings. His skin is slick, his cock hard, pressing against Tom’s hips.</p><p>“God, Ned,” Tom whispers as he shoves his thigh between Edward’s legs. Edward pushes against him so eagerly they nearly topple over, but Tom stops the momentum expertly. His sock feet slide on the rubber floor—there’s something to be said about being in socks in a public changing room, he’ll have to wash them first thing he gets home, but that can wait, it can all wait; he wants to be just a little bit dirty.</p><p>Edward rubs his cock over his thigh, gripping the front of the jersey and claiming Tom’s lips in a bruising kiss. There was something almost feral about him on the ice, during practice, and Tom is glad it’s not gone completely. Being the focus of Edward’s zeal is exhilarating. The sharp scent of his sweat surrounds them, and Tom is not sure he’s ever been into this, but right now he cannot think of a more attractive thing.</p><p>He’s so aroused he aches with it; the friction Edward’s thigh provides rubbing against his packer is not nearly enough. He wants, he wants—</p><p>“Want you inside,” Tom pants. He can’t trust his legs any longer: he puts his back against a locker, pulls Edward closer, kisses him again.</p><p>This is their last chance before forever.</p><p>They’ll do this again. Kiss again, fuck again. But this moment matters: after this weekend, just after being reunited, then nearly torn apart by hopelessness, logic. Tom needs it: needs it to be the next step.</p><p>“Gonna get the condoms,” Edward mumbles between kisses, steps away. Tom pulls him back by winding a leg around his hips.</p><p>“Want you raw,” he says.</p><p>Edward’s eyes widen. “You sure?”</p><p>Tom wants to remind him that they already made this call in the car, but what comes out is, “Wanna wear your jersey and feel your come drip down my thighs.”</p><p>Well.</p><p>That’s true, as well.</p><p>Edward kisses him so violently Tom’s skull would slam against the locker if Edward hadn’t placed a hand in there. He wraps his arm around his head in some sort of affectionate chokehold, keeps kissing him, his cock pressing against him impatiently, and Tom is too turned on to wait, to go through the motions of getting the lube, prepping his arse, and Edward is too big to neglect any of that, but he needs Edward inside now, right now—</p><p>He looks into his eyes and catches the hand steadying his hips, guides it to his groin, makes him cradle his cock, then slip lower, under the jockstraps. “Yeah?” he breathes.</p><p>“Yeah,” Edward says, and slides in. His wrist is pressing against Tom’s cock while his finger pushes deep, and he curls it just right, making Tom gasp.</p><p>“There,” he says. “That’s my prostate, I want you to milk it, could you please—make me come like this, I need to come—”</p><p>“I’ve got you,” Edward says, putting in another finger with no resistance. Tom clenches around them, looking right at Edward, slightly cross-eyed. Edward smiles at him, wolfish, and does what Tom asked, curling those thick fingers of his so he hits Tom’s prostate head on. Tom needs to hold onto Edward’s back so he doesn’t fall over, it’s just—so much, feels so good.</p><p>Edward kisses his jaw; the prickle of their stubble rubbing together sends a shiver through Tom, then Edward mouths at his throat, and Tom—wants more, a bite, a bruise, but he can’t speak, aroused like this. He grabs Edward’s hair and pulls him closer, until he can hardly breathe, Edward’s weight pressing him against the locker, impaled on his clever fingers, utterly overwhelmed.</p><p>Edward’s cock is trapped between their bodies, the poor thing, and no matter how Tom writhes, he cannot give it enough friction. Edward can wait, Tom is sure of it, but he doesn’t want him to, not when he’s going away. He leans close to his ear to ask, “Do you want to use your cock?”</p><p>“Please,” Edward says. Pulls back for an unbearable moment so Tom can get the underwear out of the way, grab the shaft. Tom guides the tip in as Edward pulls out his fingers.</p><p>“Shallow thrusts,” Tom instructs. Edward nods, which makes water drip from his fringe. Tom kisses his nose and helps him slide deeper. The stretch feels incredible; Tom’s head rolls back, and it’s lucky Edward’s arm is still there, because he would’ve hit his head again. Edward is fucking him with short little jabs, exactly how Tom prefers. He melts against Edward, grunting at particularly clever stabs, and grabs Edward’s flexing arse when he feels himself getting near the edge. “Don’t come,” he pants. “Not yet.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Edward teases, a glint in his dark eyes. “Only you’re allowed, huh?”</p><p>“Maybe when you learn to keep your cock hard.”</p><p>“Smartypants.” Edward slams in again and again, picking up the pace. “My clever Tom knows how to come more than once.”</p><p>“Mm, don’t let’s get ahead of yourself, you haven’t made me come yet.”</p><p>“Working on it.”</p><p>“Yeah, I can feel that.”</p><p>“If I knew wearing a jersey—<em>shit</em>—makes you this cheeky, I’d have put you in one ah, sooner—”</p><p>Tom squeezes Edward’s arse in acknowledgement. “Like your guys cheeky?”</p><p>“I like this particular guy.” Edward pecks his lips sweetly, then twists his hips in a way that makes Tom black out briefly. This is one of the many merits of being loved by Edward Little, to be treated gently but fucked rough, if asked, to have him service Tom with naked adoration. Tom lets himself get lost in his gaze, warmer than anything in the world, secure in the knowledge that he’ll have the time to count his eyelashes, his summer freckles.</p><p>He feels himself start to shake, and he knows his body well enough to whisper “<em>Ned</em>” just when he comes. It’s worth it for the look on Edward’s face, so earnestly smitten with him; Tom beams at him, boneless and deeply pleased, his first orgasm a sharp relief.</p><p>He collapses against Edward shamelessly, grumbles when he slips out. “Sorry,” Edward whispers, kisses the top of his head. “Super close.”</p><p>Tom adjusts his jockstraps while peering down at Edward’s cock, flushed pink and the balls taut.</p><p>“Keep this up,” he says. “I still want you to fill my arse with your come.”</p><p>Edward whimpers.</p><p>🩰🏒🩰</p><p>Edward’s head is spinning. He doesn’t recall ever loving anyone this much. “That’s right,” he says. “Wrap your legs around me.” His hands are on the bare cheeks of Tom’s arse, his aching cock pressed against Tom’s hip. Tom is heavy, but it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care—Tom’s had his sock feet on the locker room floor more than enough for today, and the least Edward can do is carry him over to the bench.</p><p>He takes a careful step, conscious of his feet still being damp. Takes another. God, he would carry Tom everywhere if he could, just go through his life with Tom nestled into his chest like this, or curled up against his back. He hopes Tom will take him up on his offer of a place to stay in London. His heart is ten steps ahead of his brain, and his brain has already made all kinds of future plans—</p><p>“You’re leaking on your jersey,” Tom notes, the clinical nature of his words completely betrayed by the languid, pleased tone of his voice. “Beautiful cock.”</p><p>“Some of that’s you,” Edward growls, pulling Tom even tighter to him as he takes the last few steps across the room. “And don’t flatter me too much, still want to give you a good dicking.”</p><p>“Another good dicking,” Tom murmurs. “Get the lube from your sex bag.”</p><p>“It’s my <em>hockey</em> bag,” Edward says, mock-offended. “Not my sex bag.”</p><p>Tom leans back a little, his calf tightening around the small of Edward’s back to counterbalance. “Left your sex bag at home, have you?”</p><p>“They bag my condoms at the chemist,” Edward deadpans. “And I’m delighted to announce that my boyfriend and I have decided we don’t need those anymore.” He holds Tom around the waist while he reaches down with his other hand, brushes off the bench before setting Tom down.</p><p>Watches as Tom leans back against the cinderblock, looking up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, even as he spreads his bare legs, all naked thigh and knee and calf and—</p><p>Edward raises his eyebrow, bites his lip. “Sock garters?”</p><p>“They keep my socks up,” Tom says. He glances down the length of his leg at the brown garter on his calf, frowns slightly. “Should have worn ones that match your jersey. Next time.”</p><p>Edward shudders, strokes his cock with one hand while he reaches blindly for his bag, digs around until he finds a couple abandoned sachets of lube in the bottom. “How do you want to do this?” He rips open the first lube sachet with his teeth, spits the end of the wrapper into his hockey bag.</p><p>“Quickly,” Tom says, eyes dancing. “I want your cock in my arse, and you look terribly close.” He glances down at the bench, considering a moment, and then reaches for one of the hooks above his head, tests it briefly with his hand before using it to pull himself up, and turn so that he’s facing the wall, up on his knees.</p><p>Edward’s face is hot. He’s staring at his own name and number on the back of the jersey, <em>LITTLE 01</em>, he’s staring at the way the jersey falls over Tom’s arse, he’s staring as Tom brings one of his hands back and flips the hem of the jersey up, exposing the flesh of his arse, and then runs that same hand down his own naked cheeks, tugging it slightly to the side to expose his hole, and the damp fabric of his jockstrap. Fuck, Edward can <em>smell</em> him, can smell the sex they’ve had already, the scent of his orgasm, the—</p><p>“Please, Ned,” Tom says. “Please, can you just—”</p><p>“Sorry,” Edward apologizes, and then he leans his bare chest against Tom’s back, rubs the back of his hand against Tom’s before sliding his lube-soaked fingers into the crack of Tom’s arse, petting his hole and then carefully easing one of his fingers in.</p><p>Tom exhales, presses back into Edward’s hand. “More,” he says softly. “I want to feel it tomorrow when you’re gone, I want—more, please.”</p><p>Edward rips the second lube packet open, pulls his finger out enough to drizzle more lube on, and then presses two fingers back in, stifles a moan in Tom’s shoulder when Tom’s body just—yields to him.</p><p>“Quit messing around,” Tom says softly. “Come on, Edward. Fuck me.”</p><p>Edward presses a kiss to Tom’s neck, rests his forehead there a moment before gently easing his fingers out, and slicking up his cock. “Can you, uh. Can you turn around? I want to see your face.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Tom says. He turns slowly—makes a production out of it, putting his legs on display as he moves, and then cradling Edward’s face in his hands. “Of course you can.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Edward says. He tips his forehead against Tom’s, takes a deep breath before putting his right foot up on the bench, and reaching for the hook to brace himself. “Alright like this?”</p><p>“Oh, <em>yes</em>,” Tom says, lowering himself down until he’s taken in the head of Edward’s cock, but no further, holding himself there in a suspension so agonizing that it makes Edward ache for him. “God, you’re thick.”</p><p>“Take your time,” Edward murmurs, but he thinks it’s more for his benefit than it is for Tom’s, because Tom is already starting to move on his cock, lowering himself the rest of the way down the shaft. Tom’s eyes are going vague and his hand is moving underneath the jersey, but Edward?</p><p>Edward is ruined already. He won’t be able to think about anything other than this, the way it feels to press his cock up into Tom, the way Tom breathes into it, bites his own lip as he touches himself. They’re breathing in unison, they’re moving together, Edward has Tom held up against the wall, bracing himself on one of the hooks bolted into the cinderblocks.  He can smell the familiar musk of his own jersey, can smell Tom’s sweat underneath.</p><p>“Harder,” Tom gasps. “Edward, can you just—”</p><p>“I got you,” Edward says, and he shifts his feet, thrusts up into Tom again. God, he’s so fucking perfect. Edward tightens his grip around Tom’s shoulders, his hand clutching his own jersey. “God, how are you this fucking hot?”</p><p>“More,” Tom whines. “Please, Edward, I need—”</p><p>“Yeah,” Edward pants. “Yeah,  yeah.” He drives up into Tom again, rubs his face into Tom’s neck, trying to catch his breath. He’s so close. He doesn’t want to be, wants to keep fucking Tom like this for hours, in every conceivable position and a few that Tom’s dreamt up that Edward could never have imagined, but he won’t last—he’s overwhelmed by everything, by Tom wearing his jersey, by the eager way Tom has been fucking back against him, by the mere fact that they’re fucking in a locker room, an association that will turn Edward’s face bright red the next time he shows up at practice.</p><p>Tom smells like Edward. It’s so much. He smells like himself and Edward at the same time, and there’s sweat on the small of Tom’s back, and it’s rubbing into the fabric of the jersey. His jersey is going to smell like sex. His jersey is going to smell like fucking Tom.</p><p>(He’s never going to wash it again.)</p><p>Edward grinds into Tom, tightens his grip on the hook just so he can thrust up a bit harder. “Is that—?”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah. Nearly, I’m—close, Ned—”</p><p>“That’s right,” Edward breathes, jabbing his hips with short, sharp thrusts. “Want you to come on my cock again, Tom. Want you to—”</p><p>Tom tenses, his arse clenching as his breath catches. His lips part as a sigh escapes him and the little wrinkle of concentration between his eyes smooths out. His eyes flutter shut for just a moment before he looks blearily up at Edward. “It’s good,” he says, voice soft. “It’s so good.”</p><p>Edward bites down on his own lip, breathes in the scent of Tom’s hair. He turns his head, licks at the sweat on Tom’s neck. Fuck, his lip hurts. He hasn’t come yet, though, not yet, so he can—</p><p>“Oh, god,” Tom says, shuddering, the hand under the jersey starting to move rhythmically again. “Once more, I think I’m good for—”</p><p>Edward grunts. “Gotta let you down,” he admits. “Don’t wanna drop you.”</p><p>“Course,” Tom says. He curls his arm around Edward’s neck, helps lower them both down to the bench. “Sorry, you’re alright?”</p><p>“Better than alright,” Edward mutters. He shifts so that Tom can lie down on the bench, starts thrusting into him again. God, Tom’s handsome like this—his face is flushed pink from his orgasms, his hair has come loose around his head, and he’s still looking at Edward like Edward is the only person that matters. “Your legs, I can’t get enough of them.”</p><p>“It’s the—dance,” Tom admits. “Hell finding trousers th-aaaaat, oh, god, that’s deep. Yeah, no, I’m good for it, please—again, can you just?”</p><p>Edward puts his hand down on the bench next to Tom’s head, bracing himself. “You want it deep, or shallow?”</p><p>“Deep,” Tom says, turning his head to the side and licking at Edward’s wrist. “How do you fuck when you’re not getting me off?”</p><p>“I, uh…” Edward swallows, snaps his hips again. “Can’t remember. Doesn’t matter.” He hangs his head, watches beads of water fall from his hair onto his jersey, watches Tom’s hand move. Thrusts again, and again. “Don’t care. Just want this.” He huffs out a breath, feels his own orgasm curling around his spine. “Tom, I’m—how close are you?”</p><p>“A minute more,” Tom says. He bites at his lip, arches his back. Pulls his hand from his jockstrap and grabs Edward’s wrist, presses it between his legs. “Could you?”</p><p>“Yeah—”</p><p>“Two fingers,” Tom asks. “Please?”</p><p>“Anything,” Edward breathes, and he knows that he can give that to Tom, now. He can give Tom anything he needs. He couldn’t when he was eighteen, but he’s thirty-two now, he can make up for it, he’s thirty-two and he’s buried in Tom, fingers and cock both, and Tom’s mouth is latched onto Edward’s other wrist, and he’s gasping out his pleasure as his back arches off the bench, and Edward grinds into him, as deep as he can possibly get. “Kiss me, please, Tom.”</p><p>Tom turns his head, opens his mouth. Their lips meet. Edward grinds his cock into Tom’s arse, feels Tom clench down on his fingers, feels his own cock moving, feels everything, all at once. Gasps in air from Tom’s lungs, swallows it down. Thrusts harder, rocking Tom against the bench, grounding himself in the feeling of the rubber floor underneath his foot, the cool air on his damp back, Tom’s mouth on his, Tom’s tongue touching his, the spit-slick slide of their lips.</p><p>Edward pulls back, tries to memorize everything, the way Tom looks underneath him, flushed and happy and aroused, the way Tom smells, the way he tastes. Edward gasps in one last shuddering breath. “I’m—”</p><p>Tom surges up to meet him, swallows back the rest of the sentence as he sits up and pulls Edward flush against him, lets Edward ride out his orgasm in the safe clutch of Tom’s body. Edward’s entire body is all nerve endings and sparks. His skin is all-over goosebumps, and his hair prickles on the back of his neck as he empties himself into Tom, feels Tom clenching and spasming around him. Edward cradles the back of Tom’s head in his hand, gently lowers him back down to the bench. Lets the fingers of his other hand slip out of Tom’s body, gently rocks his hips against Tom even though he’s going soft already.</p><p>“Hey,” Tom says, voice quiet. He reaches up, rubs Edward’s cheek, and then pops his finger in his mouth, sucks the salt-water from the pad of his thumb. “You alright, there?”</p><p>Edward swallows. Nods. Kisses Tom again, because he can, because he gets to have this, because he’s making amends, and doing the work. “Did I do okay?”</p><p>“Of course you did,” Tom says fiercely. “God, Ned, of course you did.” He pulls Edward back into him again, his hands clutching at Edward’s bare back. “Everything I wanted. More than that, even. It was—” His voice hitches, and he squeezes Edward tightly. “Just what I wanted,” he says, finally. “Everything I need.”</p><p>Edward smiles. Leans in, presses his lips to Tom’s neck. “Me too,” he says. “Me too.”</p><p>🏒</p><p>The rest of it is, somehow, more dream-like than the sex. They shower together, crammed into a stall, and it’s not awkward at all because Edward knows exactly where Tom’s body is at all times, has always known, as though a part of him is dedicated to understanding where Tom Jopson physically is, and shifting his own body so that there is space.</p><p>“Hey,” Tom says softly. “Don’t fall asleep on me, you still have to drive back to London.”</p><p>Edward reluctantly opens his eyes, looks at Tom side-long. “Protecting them from shampoo,” he offers.</p><p>“First of all,” Tom says firmly, “this is <em>not</em> shampoo, I am washing your hair with—god, this is essentially shower gel, I am <em>appalled</em>, and second of all, I have never in my life gotten soap in anyone’s eyes, and I am not about to start now.”</p><p>“I know,” Edward says softly, turning around and nuzzling Tom’s neck. “I know.” He skims his hands down Tom’s back, cups his arse. “Not too sore?”</p><p>“You fucked me very well, Edward Little,” Tom replies. He arches his back, presses into Edward’s palms, and then reaches past him to shut off the water. “I’m afraid if you don’t leave now, I’ll ask you to stay.”</p><p><em>I would stay</em>, Edward thinks—but he knows it’s okay that he won’t, too. He’ll be back. If not next weekend, maybe the weekend after, and in between, there will be calls and texts and videos, every piece of contact they can get, slotted into the empty spaces in their lives. They’re in different orbits, but they’re circling the same sun, now. There will be intersections. There will be places their lives will run in parallel, they will have the time, now. Edward will return, and Tom will let him.</p><p>“Towel’s pretty wet,” Tom says critically.</p><p>Edward shrugs, takes it anyway. “Smells like you.”</p><p>Tom raises an eyebrow as he deftly puts his socks back on, adjusts his sock garters. Edward takes a moment to watch him pulling his jockstrap up over his hips, to memorize the way the straps cradle his arse, and then he towels himself off roughly, shakes his hair out, sets the towel aside and starts putting on his own clothes. As soon as his clothes are back on, he takes a few minutes to wipe down the locker room, make sure there’s no evidence of what transpired. His hand hesitates at the lock on the door.</p><p>“Hey,” Tom says from behind him, reaching around and tweaking Edward’s nipple through his shirt. “We’ll see each other soon, alright?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Edward says. “I know, I just…” He takes a deep breath, exhales ragged. He spent so many years missing Tom and not doing anything about it that it seems highly improbable that he’d ever be given the chance to take action, and yet—here he is, and here Tom is, and Edward is free to lean back against him, press a kiss to the side of his face. “Let me give you a ride home.”</p><p>“Sure,” Tom says, grinning and intertwining his fingers with Edward’s. “Give me a ride in that cock-sucking car of yours </p><p>🏒</p><p>Edward squints into the sunlight as they finally exit the rink, and his face goes hot as Tozer glances over from where he’s leaning against a signpost.</p><p>“Hey,” Tom says, absolutely composed and collected, even though Edward is pretty certain that he’s still got Edward’s come seeping out of his arse.</p><p>Tozer raises his eyebrows, exhales a cloud of vapour and looks them both up and down before pulling himself up to standing, and picking up his hockey bag. “I’ll drive,” he says, holding out his hand. “Looking at you, Little, I’m not convinced you remember your own name.”</p><p>Edward means to wince, but what he does instead is grin, tries to cover it by ducking his head and fumbling for his keys before handing them over. “We have to drop Tom off first, though.”</p><p>“Mmmhmm,” Tozer says. He glances over at Tom.</p><p>Tom winks at him.</p><p>Tozer looks away first, and Edward very nearly laughs, settles instead for sliding his arm around Tom’s waist.</p><p>Tom fits into his arm perfectly, and everything is going to be just fine.</p><p>🌺🌺🌺</p><p>One Year Later</p><p>🌺🌺🌺</p><p>The sea is a Caribbean blue, a charming attempt from the English coastline to not look like a stormy hub for once. James likes it grey and turbulent, granted, but there’s something in this vibrant blue which makes him want to dash back to the cottage and get the Nikon FE2. The pictures wouldn’t be groundbreaking, but they would be pretty; perfectly fitting for a private collection, to remember a glimmering summer day.</p><p>He glances at Francis, ankle-deep in the water in his cargo shorts and Hawaiian shirt, looking formidable with a poised harpoon. Now, this would make a good photo: his hardened features, the breeze ruffling his soft wisp of hair, his loyal dog skipping around his ankles. He cuts such a fine figure, solid and reliable (an absolute unit, as the youth would say). He strikes down swiftly, the muscles in his arm shifting, then presents the can he speared.</p><p>“Look at that,” he says. “Who drinks whiskey from a can?”</p><p>“It’s bourbon and coke,” James corrects, just to be difficult. Francis scoffs, and James looks at him with all the love of his full-full heart.</p><p>“Bloody waste,” Francis grumbles, disposing of the can in the bag James helpfully presents. It’s half-filled with rubbish already. “Shouldn’t mix drinks.”</p><p>“Not even Jim Beam?” James teases. Francis considers it, idly twirling the harpoon.</p><p>(James absolutely needs to get his picture with the thing. He might coax him to wear the captain’s hat they got from Croatia. That, and nothing else.)</p><p>“Not even Jim Beam,” Francis pronounces his judgement. “Jopson could’ve made me give up the bottle sooner if it was Jim Beam, though.”</p><p>“If the bottle was a can,” James adds.</p><p>“Or made me drink pre-made cocktails.”</p><p>“Sin against humanity, are they?”</p><p>“If I want a fruity drink I’ll get a fruity drink,” Francis complains. James follows him faithfully to a plastic wrapper, which is put into the bag after Neptune sniff-tests it.</p><p>“Not all cocktails are fruity.”</p><p>“Name one.”</p><p>“Bloody Mary.”</p><p>“Tomatoes are a fruit.”</p><p>“They’re not a fruity fruit.”</p><p>“Name five cocktails without fruity fruits”</p><p>“Five Bloody Marys.” James puts a lock behind his ear which has escaped his loose ponytail. He quickly checks if wearing a short striped playsuit for this operation was a bad idea. He hasn’t spilled anything on it yet. “I could make you a virgin Bloody Mary,” he muses.</p><p>“That’s just called tomato juice.”</p><p>“It’s called a virgin Bloody Mary.”</p><p>“Doubt she was a virgin. Married and all.”</p><p>“Fuck, marry, kill, Bloody Mary, Mary Queen of Scots, Elizabeth the First, go.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“The incomparable Cate Blanchett plays Elizabeth, Saoirse Ronan is Mary Stuart, you get to cast Mary Tudor even though you’ll cast a blonde.”</p><p>“Saoirse,” Francis says in a tone that sounds like he’s correcting James’ pronunciation. He pouts in response. Squints at Neptune for moral support, who betrays him by affectionately nosing at Francis. “What are the rules though?” Francis presses on as he bends to examine something that turns out to be driftwood. “Do I get to have sex with the queen I marry?”</p><p>“Obviously,” James scoffs.</p><p>“That doesn’t make much sense in the game’s context, does it? If you—” His doubtlessly nuanced argument is lost to a loud rumble. They scowl at the approaching car in unison: drivers don’t usually bother to get to the beach via the winding dirtroad, which is a blessing, because Sea Esta Cottage is right at the end of said dirtroad, and the car is headed there.</p><p>“Big fucking car,” Francis notes with disdain.</p><p>“Isn’t that Edward’s big fucking car?” James asks.</p><p>Francis glances at his watch, then back at the car. “It’s Edward’s big fucking car,” he agrees, and heads for it with an adorable half-jog. James follows smirking, Neptune in tow.</p><p>(He’ll tell Francis it’s not a car, it’s a SUV.) </p><p>The <em>SUV </em>pulls to a stop. There’s a fragment of classical music turned off abruptly (Prokofiev, if James is not mistaken). Tom gets out first, a backpack thrown over his shoulder: it looks heavy, and a teddy peaks from it shyly. Tom beams at them, pushes up his designer sunglasses and runs into Francis’ arms.</p><p>That’s a surprise.</p><p>James doesn’t think they ever hugged.</p><p>The fondly bewildered expression on Francis’ face is priceless. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and settles on patting Tom’s back, who tells him he missed him and presses his face into Francis’ shoulder, a proper <em>cuddle</em>. </p><p>Edward Little is a good influence.</p><p>James watches him get out of the car, returns his awkward wave. Neptune leaps at him. Edward withstands the kisses, looks lost for a moment, then just scoops up the massive dog as if that was the obvious solution.</p><p>Tom lets go of Francis, who still seems befuddled, but touched, too, spinning his harpoon: it’s rare to see Francis fidget.</p><p>“Laundered the bedsheets,” he says, voice a bit shaky. “Smells like the Swiss Alps, if the bottle’s to be believed. Everything else’s like you left it.”</p><p>“Oh, thank you!” Tom beams sweetly.</p><p>“No problem,” Francis says, clears his throat.</p><p>“Did you manage to fix the dishwasher?”</p><p>“James did.”</p><p>“James didn’t,” James confesses, crossing his arms over his chest in defence. “Still leaves that ah, soapy residue, I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”</p><p>“Edward,” Francis points at him. “You look like a man who can fix dishwashers.”</p><p>“I do,” Edward says. “I can.” He’s having some difficulty maneuvering to the back of the SUV while Neptune clings on.</p><p>“Francis,” James chides. “Let him arrive, he’s a guest at our house.”</p><p>Francis arches a brow at him. “He’s family.”</p><p>Well—it’s becoming undeniable, isn’t it? Tom had been characteristically mysterious about the seriousness of the relationship initially, but the frequent mention of Edward in every single phonecall had become something of a running joke, and then eventual bingo game between Francis and James. James was nice enough not to point out when the Facetime backdrop changed from a fold-out IKEA sofa to a spacious living room with brick walls and a proper leather couch. An introduction was eventually made, which Edward handled like a job interview, suit and all. As one would expect, the media got somewhat involved, too, with varying reactions to a hockey player’s gay love affair. (<em>Tom should have the headline</em>, Edward grumbled once James got his private number for emergencies, such as an immediate need for gossip. <em>I’m just a fucking defenseman, he’s a principal dancer.</em>) There were Instagram posts until Francis insisted on a proper shoot and immortalised a weekend visit wherein they all rented a boat. The photo of Thomas and Edward playing Titanic looks great on the mantlepiece: James had never seen him quite so happy.</p><p>“What do you think, Edward?” James asks. “Wanna be part of the family even if it means fixing the dishwasher?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Edward says without hesitation. Francis pats him on the back too so he doesn’t feel left out, and helps him get the suitcases from the boot. Edward refuses to put Neptune down. The resulting visual resembles a bear attack.</p><p>“Puppy, look!” Tom gasps.</p><p>Puppy, who is apparently none other than Edward Little, looks. “Wow,” he says, appraising the bright blue sea with his version of enthusiasm, the corners of his mouth ever so slightly curled. “Wanna go swimming after unpacking?”</p><p>“Didn’t know you could swim,” Francis notes as he hands a duffel bag to Tom. He swings it over his shoulder with some amount of flair.</p><p>“Swimming,” he says, “ice skating, ballet, and we started doing pilates and kettlebell together. Ned is planning to send me to the Olympics, apparently.”</p><p>“You’d win,” Edward says simply. Tom smiles at him, dimples and all, and they get in each other’s gazes long enough for James to get the last two bags and close the boot.</p><p>They all head to the garden. Predictably, Edward has some trouble balancing luggage and a dog about the size of his head and torso. He drops  a suitcase; Tom darts to help. “Got it, ta, go ahead,” Edward says. Tom hovers, trying to help, and only leaves because Francis calls for him to help with the keys. James comes to Edward’s rescue, which seems to be exactly what he wanted.</p><p>“A word in private,” he mumbles, looks over his shoulder. He’s ridiculously conspicuous, but James humours him by looking around too. The love-in-a-mists are in bloom. How lovely. “Our anniversary is in August,” Edward whispers.</p><p>“I’m aware,” James says in the tone of a person who doesn’t forget a half-naked young man waltzing through his garden when he sees one.</p><p>“Wanna make it special,” Edward says. “We have things planned, but he loves surprises, and he loves tea, and he loves cake, so I was thinking—Anne Ross’s bakery, his favourite, if you could please help me arrange a secret delivery of earl grey cake—” </p><p>“Only if I get a slice,” James jokes, already devising fantastic plans of where to best hide a cake without Tom noticing. Dundy will have to be involved, as well as two iceboxes, one as a decoy, and Hannah’s new drumset for distraction.</p><p>“Of course you get a slice,” Edward says, sounding worried that James would think otherwise. “And I, ah. I need a swan.”</p><p>James smirks. “A shenanigan,” he purrs. “You came to the right person.”</p><p>“Ned!” Tom calls from the house; he leans out of the kitchen window, one leg up in  the air, the little show-off. “Francis wants your eyes on the dishwasher, before we head to swim?”</p><p>“Coming!”</p><p>“You’re the best!”</p><p>Edward smiles shyly, gives a quick, meaningful glance to James, then heads inside with the dog and all the luggage. Tom waits for him to get in; as soon as the door shuts, he rolls out of the window in a complicated motion, lands perfectly among the herbs. “James,” he whispers.</p><p>“Yes?” James whispers back. Refuses to walk closer. Tom peers around then tip-toes to him—why en pointe, James has no idea. <em>Onegin </em>must still be in his muscles.</p><p>“August is the month of our anniversary,” Tom informs him once he stops to do some stretches. “We’re revisiting the spots of our first date, we’ll be out late. Ned hates surprises, so I just need your help in something small, a little gesture to not make him too overwhelmed but to, you know, make it special. I’ll give you a giftbag tonight and I’ll ask you to guard it during our stay, then on the morning following the anniversary if you could please hang it on the hook where the marigolds are..? Whenever you wake up, we’ll be having breakfast in bed so he won’t see you until like, noon.”</p><p>“Gotcha,” James says. “He’ll suspect nothing.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Tom smiles at him warmly, and pulls him into an embrace. He goes back the way he came from, that is, through the window. James takes a moment to look after him, his smirk softening to a parental smile. He remembers when they first met—well, <em>vaguely recalls</em> the event, because he was going through one of his trademark near-death experiences—but the point is: there was a boy, way too young to roam Nunavut, his eyes blue and round behind his goggles, and as he approached James he expected him to say<em> if you please—draw me a sheep</em>, he looked so out of place. What he said was “<em>they’re still alive</em>,” and James would later argue that it was worth wearing heeled boots for an Arctic expedition for the pleasure of gender ambiguity. A second figure emerged, much less ethereal, namely the handsomest and angriest man James had ever seen, yelling “<em>get off the ice!</em>” which was just fucking rich in the Arctic, global warming nothwithstanding, and James had just pointed that out when he felt something shift and crack under his lying figure, and his first instinct was to save the camera, so he just threw it at Francis.</p><p>Some things are worth lying on your back on a not-so-frozen-in lake while you wait out the exposure time.</p><p>The photo ended up being an uninspiring shot of the aurora.</p><p>Francis and Tom ended up being family. It was kind of funny, in a way, that they found him, just like the Coninghams found him, and his father’s cousins before that, that an unwanted kid such as him would know so much comfort and warmth: he wasn’t set up for a life like this.</p><p>He enters his home, steps out of his loafers. Walks the line of sunlight on the hardwood floor barefoot. He sets down the rubbish bag, and there’s beauty in such a mundane act, especially since sorting and recycling the contents is <em>fun </em>if Francis is there, and he’s there, he’s always exactly where James needs him.</p><p>Right now he’s by the dishwasher, leaning into it as he gives invaluable advice to Edward. Edward is squatting to peer into the machine, frowning profoundly; Tom stands by him, giving calming caresses to his hair while he asks Francis something about the detergent dispenser. Neptune assists by slobbering over Edward’s ankle. James lingers in the door for a moment to look at them all together, reunited.</p><p>He’s starting to suspect he has a new son; in-law or not, doesn’t matter; time will tell; Edward belongs here, belongs with them.</p><p>He goes to the fridge, with the intention of making them lemonade.</p><p>If he’s lucky, the garden will have enough fresh raspberries to put in it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><span class="u">Content warnings</span>:<br/>- Memories of <b>gender dysphoria</b> and struggling to work as a trans dancer. If you'd rather skip this section, stop reading at "tutus are objectively cute" and start reading again at "I don’t know if there’s space left for anything else." In the interim, Tom expresses that he sacrificed so much for his career he doesn't want to sideline it for a relationship.<br/>- A throwaway line implies a casual sexual relationship between <b>Sol and Edward</b> in the past (You Know What They Say About Hockey Players). If you’re only here for the OTP, stop reading at “it sounds like you’ve known each other a while” and pick up at “I'm the same way” for a generous skip.<br/>- During the locker room scene, Edward and Tom engage in both fingering and penetrative sex in front. Although we did our best to avoid language that could be construed as <b>dysphoric</b>, you may stop reading at “Edward is too big to neglect any of that, but he needs Edward inside now, right now—” and pick up at “Tom adjusts his jockstraps while peering down at Edward’s cock, flushed pink and the balls taut.” in order to skip the first section (during which Tom orgasms, while warning Edward not to do the same...yet), and then stop again at ““A minute more,” Tom says.” and pick up at ““Hey,” Tom says, voice quiet.” in order to skip the second (during which Edward has a whole whack of feelings, realizes he can be there emotionally for Tom now in a way he couldn’t be when he was younger, and then they kiss, both coming at approximately the same time).</p><p>Tom quotes "You Are Jeff" by Richard Siken, because he would.</p><p>Aaand that's a wrap! Thank you so, so much for reading—please let us know what you thought!  💗</p><p>You can find a moodboard for your <a href="https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/627166652138700800/latent-heat-33-completed-edward-little-is-a">reblogging</a> /<a href="https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1297204257754689537">retweeting</a> consideration, or come say hi on twitter (<a href="https://twitter.com/forautumniam">@forautumniam</a>/<a href="https://twitter.com/heyktula">@heyktula</a>)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>